re S I N H E A R T
by marmaroth
Summary: Chapter Ten: "I'm a little girl with a broken arm and you can smell me, I'm human, I'm normal, right? Just take me to him. It's not like I'll be able to do anything in a room full of chimera and a homunculi!" OC world-insert, manga/Brotherhood. Pen name formerly nagashinokuro.
1. prologue

**.S. I. N. H. E. A. R. T.**

**Prologue:**

_**to make a human being**_

"**Genius is born, not paid." –Oscar Wilde**

"**Every end is a new beginning." –Anonymous**

* * *

Let me give you a little biology lesson.

When a sperm and an egg meet, it's called fertilization (and I bet you can imagine perfectly well how that came about). The fertilized egg is called a zygote. The zygote multiplies and develops, plunks itself into the mother's womb, and develops some more. By the second trimester of pregnancy (months 4 through 6) the zygote (now a fetus) is conscious. It can hear and recognize voices and move around.

Meanwhile, there's a bunch of crap around the baby called the placenta, which is how it gets nutrients. Then there's the umbilical cord, which is also how it gets nutrients. There's also the amniotic sac, which is a bag of liquid around the baby that keeps it from getting hurt. (This is what actually ruptures when "water breaks.") It's all great, and of course the baby doesn't think anything about it when it's in there,

When the fetus is around 5 months old, it's conscious, but unless you're a freak of nature, you obviously don't remember being in a womb or suspended in disgusting sticky liquid.

I do.

After around nine months of pregnancy, a woman goes into labor and then the baby's out and everyone breaks out the champagne, but unless you're a freak of nature, you obviously don't remember getting pushed out of your mother's uterus.

I do.

And then for months afterward, the newborn baby has to nurse and endure wearing diapers and possibly colic, but unless you're a freak of nature, you obviously don't remember drinking milk from your mom's breast or having people change your underwear for you.

I do.

But then, unless you're a freak of nature, which you're probably not, you wouldn't know what it's like to die and then reincarnate in a world you'd only ever imagined in 2D.

I do.

* * *

_**Day 00**_

_There's a long silence, and then the world slows down so much I almost think it could start running backward, I'm falling falling falling but there's no one behind me to catch me, and then there's the sensation you get when you're underwater and you see yellow lights melted in chlorine, only I'm on hard concrete I just can't make myself breathe. And then the freeze frame shatters and there's screaming and honking and the screeching of tires and then the smell of burnt rubber, metal glinting in the sun, someone hurrying out of the car with panic on his face windshield splattered red so much noise and pain someone calling and is that my blood and oh God I just want this to end—_

_In that kind of blur, I died. _

_**Day 06**_

_Darkness darkness darkness. Because there's no light for our eyes to reflect in this world, and it must be hell because where else is there no light, no hope, no nothing, just eternal suspension in this little bubble. I reach out, groping, grasp the thing next to me I guess is a hand, and it must be a hand because it squeezes back._

_I'm not alone._

_I'm not alone._

_**Day 23**_

_When I open my mouth to speak, it feels like it's just been carved into my head. It opens and closes fish-like, but nothing comes out, and we're in some kind of hellwater but oddly enough nothing goes in. There's some shifting next to me, and then the hand reaches up to touch my face, and I've been in water so long my skin is numb all over._

_But I reach up as best I can to touch back, because these are the only reassurances we can give each other of our sanity and our world._

_**Day 58**_

_Eternity is a long time to wait, I think. I've long since lost track of time, because time is meaningless when you can't do anything with it, just as money loses value on a deserted island. _

_Suddenly, the water around me shifts, and then there is a feeling of skin sliding against skin, arms around body, head on shoulder. I cannot call that person a stranger, though I have no knowledge of him or her beyond touch, and even then very limited. I cannot call him a stranger because we are suffering together._

_If I could, I would cry, but in this darkness even that much has been taken from me._

_**Day 109**_

_Something isn't right._

_The world around me suddenly shakes, like hell is being hurled by earthquakes. The water swirls and flies and suddenly it's all gone—and for the first time since dying I feel remarkably wet. The shaking continues, I'm thrown this way and that and turned sideways, backwards, upside down. A hand grasps mine tightly, tightly, so tightly, we hold on to each other for dear life because we're all we've got. Separation for us is nothingness, because knowing for sure someone else is there is the only way to make sure you are._

_And then suddenly the shaking seems to have a direction. It's pushing me on my head, thrusting me forward, like some monstrous giant is throwing me up from his stomach. I reach out desperately but suddenly our hands are torn apart, and I'm being pulled away. I try to scream but nothing comes out except a sound that might resemble a gurgle._

_And then I have feelings, feelings of being cold and wet and tired and hungry, and they're feelings I'm feeling and the world is such a shock that I open my mouth and what comes out is a sound so earth-shattering it cannot be anything but a baby's first cry._

_In this kind of blur, I was born._

* * *

_**Day 109**_

_water carbon ammonia phosphorus salt_

"They're beautiful, aren't they?" A pale colorless hand, stroking softly softly gently, a strained voice (_pretty _she thinks dully) full of weary beaming pride.

"Yes, my lady, they're lovely. And they look just like you."

(She turns and inclines her head toward the voice, like a flower facing the sun.)

"Look, she smiles, she knows her mother!"

A hand finds and grips hers.

"Aw, they're so sweet. Not even a day old and they're clinging to each other!"

"They'll need to support each other later on, so that's good."

"Yes, my lady."

_saltpeter lime sulfur fluorine iron silicon_

"Be strong and healthy children." Not a request, an order, given to be followed and obeyed, the general commanding her army of two in a battle against the world. "The fate of the Yao clan rests on your shoulders, little ones."

_water carbon ammonia phosphorus salt_

"My lady, you should rest. I'll take them to the nursery and put them to bed for you—"

"There is no need. I'll sleep with them tonight."

"But, my lady, what if you crush them in your sleep?"

A loving gaze, warming to the tip of the naked toes.

_saltpeter lime sulfur fluorine iron silicon_

"I won't. A mother cannot hurt her children without losing herself."

_water_

"Isn't that right?"

_water carbon_

"My little Ling." The hand squeezes hers again and she is not alone.

_water carbon ammonia_

"My little Ming." A kiss is placed on the tip of her nose and she flinches, shrinking into the scarlet blankets, baby-blue eyes widening like two pieces of sky.

_water carbon ammonia phosphorus salt saltpeter lime sulfur fluorine iron silicon_

"Such lovely names, my lady."

_**water carbon ammonia phosphorus salt saltpeter lime sulfur fluorine iron silicon**_**—**

_**but she cannot help but feel somewhere, in the depths of her mind, that something has been forgotten.**_

* * *

_Strange child._**  
**  
The broom sweeps over the stone tiles mechanically as the old servant thinks, thinks as only one with her years and her eyes can.

The princess does not see it. When the stories come, the rumors circulate, the whispers echo in the halls, she turns a blind eye and pretends not to hear them.

(_Stories of how a book went missing, a brush set disappeared, ink spots were found on the bed sheets …)_

"My children are normal," she insists. "_Both_ of them. And if they aren't, well, that's only to be expected, isn't it? They're the children of the emperor. One of them will have all Xing under his rule."

But that one, the one who is currently flopped over his sister and sucking his thumb, is not the one the old servant is worried about. It is the other, the girl-child, the one who is currently being pinned by her brother and wearing the faintly annoyed look of someone much, much older.

From the day of her birth she never cried, not even once. When her twin brother wails from want or hunger or sickness, she is silent in comparison. When she wants or hungers or sickens, she does not cry. Instead, she watches.

She is always watching.

Even now, the old servant can feel pitch-black eyes on her back, and a cold shiver runs down her spine.

"Nai Nai," says the prince-child, sitting up, holding out his arms. His eyes are narrow, just like his mother's, giving him the look of a fox, but the grin itself is sweet and innocent and pure. "Up."

She sets the broom down and walks over to pick up Ling, wincing as her bones creak, crows' feet crinkled in an old dry smile. Ming says nothing, the dark eyes watching, always watching.

The old servant carries Ling piggy-back around the courtyard. He shrieks with laughter.

"Fasta, fasta!"

She does not change the pace but he laughs anyway. She looks across the courtyard, beyond the peony bushes, beyond the gingko trees, and her eyes catch a black smear on the edge of the stone.

"_Fire!"_

"_Someone help! The courtyard is on fire!"_

"Fasta, Nai Nai!" Ling laughs again and pounds the old woman's back, and she speeds up carefully, shifting his weight so she does not drop him.

"_Who did this?!"_

"_All this smoke, someone must have set it—"_

"_Bring water, water!"_

"I wanna geddown nao," the prince-child announces, and she lets him down inside his room just like an obedient servant should. He crawls over to his sister and tugs her hair. "Minmin!"

She does not answer. She is looking at the old servant, and the old woman looks back, feeling the chill down her spine again, wondering, as she has so many times before, if this girl-child knows.

The wrinkled old hand slips involuntarily into her robes, where a scrap of charred paper sits folded, written with words she cannot read, a language she does not understand. It is the only thing left of the pile she found burning; the rest have been scattered into the wind as ashes. She tries not to think of it, because the girl-child might look into her mind and see, but the shapes of the letters she does not recognize spring unbidden.

…_**Xing…Fullmetal…different…Amestris…died…world…forge t…home.**_

"Nai Nai."

She looks down. The black eyes stare for a bit longer, and then the child-lips curve into a small, sweet smile, a perfect imitation of her brother's. Ming holds out her arms.

"Up. Please?"

_Why do you even ask?_ the old woman thinks, knowing, just as Ming does, that she has no choice.

* * *

_Ming looks at herself in the mirror._

_She looks at herself in the mirror, and she thinks, _this isn't me_. But it is, and she knows it all too well. She reaches out and touches the frosty glass, and the girl who is and isn't her reaches out and touches her too._

"_Minmin?"_

_She's left the candle on for too long, and Ling is awake, rubbing his eyes blearily, squinting through the light to try and see her face._

"_Minmin, what're you doing?"_

_She turns and closes her _(too small)_ fist around the tiny flame, throwing her features in shadow. There's a hiss, and then there's smoke, and she looks at her hand, knowing that the burn is there but unable to make out its edges in the darkness she has drawn around herself._

"_Nothing. Go back to sleep."_

* * *

The first thing Baifeng Yao said when she awoke from her nightmare was: "I want to see them."

The signs and symptoms were all clear, the doctors told her: the pallid of her skin, the deep bags under her eyes, the deep bruises she hid beneath silk robes, the raspy throat, the enervation, the fainting spells. Healing from this would be long in coming (_if it ever came at all)_. But she wanted to see her children, and she was the princess of the Yao clan: what she wanted, they would give. It had been that way since she was born, and it would be that way now.

The foolish servant shifted on foot to foot. "But, Milady, you're sick, the doctor specifically ordered that you were not to have visitors—"

"_I want to see them_," the princess of the Yao clan said, with her comply-or-I'll-see-your-throat-cut-and-your-head-t hrown-into-the-river look, and the terrified girl scurried to obey. As she rushed out of the chambers, Baifeng let her head fall back into the pillows. _They're too soft,_ she noted.

So soft, so light, it felt as if she could sink right through them and fall forever.

"Mother?" that was Ling, blinking sleepily in the dim light of the candles. She heard a distinct sneeze: that was Ming, choking on the thick incense that clouded the room. "Mother, you wanted to see us?"

"Yes." _I wanted to see you_, she wanted to say, _just one last time, to apologize for the mother I wasn't, the princess I had to be, the world I brought you into against my own accord._ "Ling, you know you are the prince of the Yao clan, do you not?" She made out a nod. "Do you know what that means?"

Ling scrunched up his face—_adorable_, thought Baifeng momentarily, feeling a rush of love—and tried to think. "Um…I'm gonna be the emperor?"

He said it so simply, as if everything could be summarized in that one short sentence. She wondered silently how long ago it had been since she had been that innocent, that carefree, that ignorant. "Yes, you have to be the emperor. Do you know why?"

"Um? Because, because…"

"You are the prince of the Yao clan. That means, Ling, that the fate of the Yao clan depends on you."

"Fate?"

_Yes, fate. This is what I brought you into, my son. You will never be able to escape the fate that was chosen for you, just as I was not and am still not able to escape mine. _

"The future of the Yao clan depends on you, Ling." She gave a tired smile, ordered her muscles to stretch in a way that she knew was reassuring to them but wearying for her. "It is a huge responsibility, but I believe you can bear it." _Because you must bear it. Human beings can do amazing things when given no other choice._

"What about Minmin?" He cocked his head like an inquisitive little bird, or maybe a fox. "Is Minmin gonna be emperor too?"

Baifeng made out Ming's features in the dark; she thought she saw a perk of the head, a quirk of the mouth, but Ming's face was still as unreadable as no child's should be.

It was the same as she had realized for the first time, long ago: she sought her daughter, and in that daughter's place she found a stranger, a stranger she could not fathom. …Oh, she heard the rumors, she knew the tales, and they said demon and spirit, and they called her ignorant, blind, foolish, but she knew, and she could call all of them fools: this stranger was closer to her than any other blood-child could be.

In this strange Ming, Baifeng saw, clearer than ever, a reflection of herself.

"Ming has another job," Baifeng said, slowly so that they could understand. "Ming is the princess of the Yao clan, yes, but only one of you can be emperor."

"But that's not fair," Ling said, narrow eyes stretched as wide as they could go.

_Life is not fair, my dear son, and you will learn this all too soon._

"No, but that is how it is," she said. "Ming may not be emperor, but she still has a job to do."

"What is it?"

"_She's simply not normal, Milady."_

"She will help you become emperor, my son, and then she will take care of the clan when you take care of our country."

"Oh, okay," Ling said: placated, just like that, content with a simple question and a simple answer. She thought she saw, or perhaps she imagined, Ming staring at her at that moment.

"_She is watching, always, all the time. It unnerves us."_

"It is not as easy as it sounds, but neither is it as difficult as some imagine it to be," Baifeng said, replying to the question unspoken, cementing her madness. "And I believe, I have faith, that you can do it. Both of you."

"_She doesn't play with the other children, or even Ling. We don't know _what _she does."_

"Yes, Mother," the two chorused.

"_She barely even speaks."_

There followed a long silence in which she desperately racked her mind for things to say, ways to comfort, ways to cushion the fall. She watched them hungrily as she did so: Ling shifting, Ming pinching the skin of his hand to keep him still; Ling casting longing glances at the door, Ming almost involuntarily grasping his hand to keep him from inching away…and suddenly she knew what to do.

"But before that, you must make a promise to me."

"A promise, Mother?"

"_Things go missing. Books, brushes, paper…small things. Barely anyone notices them. But, milady, that's not the most unnerving part of it."_

She would not ask the impossible of them. She would only ask the most of what they could give, and that would be enough.

"Take care of each other," was all Baifeng Yao said: no choked farewells, no tears, no wailing, no pain, no regrets. But she thought she saw (or she imagined) that as her child—not children, child—walked out the door, Ming turned halfway and calmly mouthed goodbye.

_Please, take care of my son._

"_**No matter what, she never cries."**_

* * *

The funeral for the princess of the Yao clan was long and grand and solemn, and Ming was thoroughly sick of it all.

"Minmin?" A whisper, a tug on the clothes. "Minmin, what's going on? What are we doing?"

They had not seen fit to inform the children, it seemed, royal though the twins were. Well, that was fine: after all, she was not a child; she had never been a child.

"Be quiet and watch," she said, not bothering to turn to look at him. He was the child, the sweet, innocent child, and sometimes she felt infuriated without knowing why, that they had shared so much and yet so little, that he was as innocent as she had once been.

"Minmin? Minmin, what's wrong? You're crying…"

"?" She reached up, touched her cheek and felt wetness that shouldn't have been there, brought away her hand, stared as that wetness streaked down her finger. "?"

_Why?_

She had not known that woman. That woman had not been her mother, not really, and she had felt nothing for her, she still felt nothing for her, and yet the nothingness she felt still overflowed.

"Minmin, what's wrong?" Ling hovered, concern on his baby-face, tugging at her clothes. "Minmin, are you sad?"

"I'm not," Ming said: her voice wasn't choked, there was no sorrow, but the tears fell stubbornly one by one. "I'm not…" She reached up and tried to wipe them away with one swift movement, but her sleeve dampened and the tears still fell. "I'm not. I'm not."

Ling watched her, baffled, and she could see the cogwheels turning with difficulty in his mind. Then his eyes lit up. "Minmin, is it Mother? Does this have something to do with Mother?"

"No," Ming said. "It has nothing to do with Mother. I'm not, I'm not—"

_I'm not, I'm not, I'm not. I didn't care, I don't care, she didn't matter, no one matters, I don't matter. So why, so why, so why—_

And then she was broken down, sobbing into her sleeve uncontrollably, wailing as though her life depended on it, reaching instinctively for something, someone, anything to hold her up,

Little hands grabbed onto her, arms latched around her waist.

"Don't cry, don't cry," Ling panicked, watching the girl he had never seen even stumble take a fall in front of his very eyes. "Please don't cry, Minmin, please—I'll be good like Mother said to, so please—" _Please don't be sad, I don't know what to do, I don't understand, but _"—I don't want you to be sad, Minmin, please don't cry! I'll be good, I promise! I'll, I'll—"

He groped for something, anything firm and concrete, found something, latched onto it. "—I'll be the emperor, like Mother said I should! Minmin, I'll be emperor, and you can take care of the clan, like Mother said, so please don't, please don't cry—"

He jabbered on mindlessly, trying to comfort her in the only way he knew, while terrified at having the ground pulled out from beneath his feet, at seeing the world turned upside down snowglobe-like and shaken by some mysterious giant; but still he held on to her, patting her back awkwardly with his little hands,

(They were so _small.)_

holding on to her because she needed him, and he needed her as the only confirmation he had.

_A hand grasps mine tightly, tightly, so tightly, we hold on to each other for dear life because we're all we've got._

She sobbed into his small shoulder. She cried for what she had left behind, for the things she had forgotten, for the things she had lost; she cried because they were abandoned and forgotten and broken, and because it had taken forever for her to realize that she could pick them up again and put them back together.

* * *

_**water carbon ammonia phosphorus salt saltpeter lime sulfur fluorine iron silicon—**_

_**a mind**_

_**a heart**_

_**a soul**_

* * *

**Edited 8.9.2013**


	2. I: reason

**.S. I. N. H. E. A. R. T.**

**I**

_reason_

"**Every person of genius is considerably helped by being dead." –Robert S. Lunde**

"**Genius is sorrow's child." –John Adams**

* * *

_The girl's name is Ming._

_She is six years old, the child-princess of the Yao, one of the larger and more prosperous clans in Xing; the last heir was successfully put on the throne only three generations ago. She is small even for her age, and knows nothing._

(Or so they say.)

_The assassin's forehead crinkles slightly as he scans the file he has been given a second time; his eyes linger on the name of his employer (an alias, of course)._

_In the game of Xingese politics, there are three players: the clans, their puppy-loyal servant clans, and the freelance mercenaries like himself who make their moves in-between—like bats, unable to choose between birds and beasts. They do not care, frankly, who will become emperor. They simply take missions from the highest bidder and carry them out with cold efficiency. No sympathy. No empathy. No questions. And because of this role they play, mercenaries carry out the lowest duties and the dirtiest deeds, from strangling newborns to poisoning mothers. _

_The assassin knows his role. He knows it too well. _Nosympathy. No empathy. No questions.

_But even after years of conditioning, he still cannot help but wonder, briefly, what kind of crime this little Yao princess could have possibly committed…_

* * *

_Fuck fuck fuck shit dammit dammit dammit—_

It's useless to run, she knows. This tiny child's body will never do the bidding of her more mature mind: it can try, but the ends will never meet. She can try, but she will never escape.

She can run until her pores bleed from the friction, till the soles of her feet blister, till her lungs malfunction, till her muscles scream and tear, but no matter how hard she pushes herself she is biologically six and no amount of effort can change that.

_Fuck!_ Her eyes dart left and right, front and up, searching frantically for something, anything. An escape route, some kind of weapon—

_Where are all the people? _She suddenly wonders. Ling has gone off with an entourage to visit the emperor, as is the custom for all potential heirs; several of the men have gone to help with a shipment of goods that will eventually make their way across the Great Desert on horseback. But where are the maids, the kitchen boys, the cooks, the rest of the servants and their families?

The compound that echoed with laughter and chatter by day is as silent as the dead by night.

She grits her tiny teeth. _It can't be—he can't have killed them all? BASTARD!_

Terror gives her a rush of adrenaline and she puts on a burst of speed, just in time to avoid a knife flying her way. _This would actually be kinda fun if I weren't about to die._ She skids to an abrupt stop: a dead end, a wall glowing eerily white in the moonlight. _Scratch that. This is not fun, not fun at all._

The assassin is absolutely silent, or he would be if his knife didn't make such an obvious clang as it struck the wall perilously near her neck.

Her eyes dart as he draws another, a snake that has cornered a mouse: and the mouse's tiny mind whirs, sparks flying at light speed—not _I'mgonnadieI'mgonnadie_, but _escapescapescape_, clinging to life—

Her small, chubby hand grips the knife in sudden inspiration, and with one swift move she ducks and pulls it out with all her weight. Another blade strikes where her heart had been a second ago. She turns so that she is facing the dark figure; he watches her silently as he draws another knife.

_She is admirable_, he decides. _That a mere child, facing a grown adult with all intention to kill, could survive for this long and even decide to stand and fight, is admirable. Foolish, yes, but admirable._

The assassin has never had a family of his own. People of his class tend not to. Most women do not wish to live in a home sustained by blood money…

And then, with a mental start, he realizes he must have hesitated for too long, for there is a quite unchildlike-smirk on the child's lips. But she has done nothing, or does she think him weak, since he has not killed her yet—?

She whips around and slams her hands against the wall with all her tiny might. He wonders, briefly, if she expects to be able to push it over and escape—but it is a very brief moment of wonder, because suddenly something as bright as moon itself flashes, lighting up the summer night.

He curses aloud unintentionally as he rubs his eyes. When he opens them again, she is gone, and where once there was stone, there is now a clear opening leading into the forest.

She is running, running, running again, and she feels herself tiring, but she knows he must be following and she cannot stop. In the darkness her vision fails her and she stumbles once or twice, but she picks herself up, disregarding the mixture of fresh and old blood. There is a light in the distance. _That's where those men were packing the shipment this morning_, she realizes, and feels a flare of hope. _If there's light, there must still be some people there—_

_Unless he got to them too,_ a snide voice in her mind points out as she trips again.

_Even then, it's better than running in the dark. He can definitely see better than I can, he's an assassin...damn this body!_

So she runs towards the light through a tunnel of darkness, and not far behind the assassin gives chase, his mind now racing just as hers is.

_There was only one thing that could have made a flash like that_. _Rentanjutsu—but _how? _The files said nothing about it. And she was clever enough to use my knife to carve a circle, using her body to block my field of vision?_

_She's running towards the export area_, he suddenly realizes. _She probably thinks that the light means people. That's fine—the place should be deserted by now. I can't take aim in this darkness with these trees and her scurrying around like a mouse anyway._

Even before she reaches it, she realizes that the area around the fire burning at the edge of the forest is void of people. The boxes and crates are still there, but the horses are gone. There is the odd sign of human habitation: a jacket, some matches, an empty cup, but all in all her place of salvation is empty.

She grits her teeth again as the knife slices past her arm, adding a new wound to her collection, and (at this point, for lack of anything else to do, really) she starts to runs again, too, but stops abruptly. Her legs are heavier than lead; her rush of adrenaline has left her.

She's going to die.

She's going to die.

So there, that's the difference between her and that mouse: humans learn to accept the inevitable. Animals will struggle until the bitter end.

_She's not running anymore_, the assassin observes, jumping to land swiftly in front of her. Vaguely, she realizes that she is trapped between him and the shipment.

She opens her mouth bravely. "Who sent you?" It is pointless; he will never answer, they never do. It is _why_ this stupid tradition of killing potential heirs continues—because none of the clans ever have to answer for it.

…Killing potential heirs?

But…she's _not_ a potential heir.

The Yao clan made that clear when she wasn't sent to visit the Emperor with her brother, and it is logical; it would only cause internal war if she had to compete with Ling. So, then…_this _doesn't make any sense.

Why on Earth would someone want her dead if she isn't even a threat in the first place?

Her mind comes to a stop when she realizes that the assassin hasn't made a move since she opened her mouth, and doesn't seem to be planning to do so anytime soon. She blinks at him in momentary confusion, and then—

"The Yao Clan."

…_**what kind of crime this little Yao princess could have possibly committed…to warrant being killed by her own people.**_

* * *

The assassin is at war with himself. He has broken one of the major unspoken laws of the mercenaries: never give away your employer. If you must, give the alias; do _not_ speak the name of the clan, even under threat of death. Or, worse, torture.

But he admits it now, that he is intrigued by this little girl who is a mass of contradictions. She is a princess, an alchemist, a six-year-old able to not scream in pain at the slightest wound, able to dodge and face an enemy, able to navigate through a forest in the dead of night; a child who can turn and question her killer as she is about to die.

"_Why?_"

The word is barely a whisper. The girl's eyes are as huge as dinner plates, bigger still in comparison to her small face.

"I don't know," the assassin admits. "I only know that I was ordered to kill you by someone in the higher ranks of your household."

Her mind stopped, seemingly, with the world; now it is whirring again, at ten times its previous speed. He didn't murder the entire compound they deserted her an opposing clan doesn't want her dead because she's a potential heir _her own clan_ wants her dead because—

she's not going to die at the orders of some unknown clan she's going to die at the orders of a distant uncle some barely related aunt because—

_because._

Because, why?

"_**Devil child!"**_

Why?

"_**Perhaps she was born of some demon."**_

"_**What if this gets out?"**_

Why?

"_**What will it do to the Yao clan's reputation?"**_

"_**She's a demon child, sent to curse us."**_

_Why?_

The assassin watches with a kind of fascinated horror as the myriad of emotions crosses the child's face, emotions that belong to an older woman, a woman of a time long gone. It's unnerving, he realizes, because those expressions are ones he's seen before in mercenaries thrice her age, in war veterans, in _himself_.

And suddenly, he makes the decision.

"I'm not going to kill you."

The girl doesn't seem to hear him. He repeats his words.

"I'm not going to kill you."

This time, his voice makes it through and she looks at him. Her face has settled for the most terrifying expression of all, he thinks: nothingness. Is it worth it, this twisted kindness, this warped sacrifice, for someone who seems to have lost the will to live?

"I'm not going to kill you," he says again.

"Why?"

He doesn't know if it's "why do they want to kill me?" or "why are you sparing me?" and at this point he's not quite sure it matters anymore. All that really matters is that he is committing taboo, and yet, at this moment, he cannot bring himself to care.

"You're going to live," he says repetitively, and the "why" question, whichever it is referring to, goes unanswered. He scans the area, and an idea comes to him. "This shipment will be leaving tomorrow morning, when it gets light. You can leave with it."

Some light dawns in the girl's eyes, and he's glad to see it because it lifts some of the emptiness away. "You…want me to leave Xing?"

If a family is desperate enough to hire a professional mercenary (the term almost makes him laugh; it's practically an oxymoron) to kill its own child (technically), then it will be desperate enough to do so again. He might let this girl live, but his successor might not.

"I will tell them I killed you," he offers quietly. _They won't go after you then. _She laughs. It's a laugh too harsh, too sardonic for a child her age—but then again, she is too _everything_ for her age.

"Doesn't matter, right? They just want me gone. They don't give a damn if it's hell or another country." She studies him for a bit, her brow crinkled (_It looks a bit like mine_, he thinks suddenly).

She doesn't speak like a child either. (Where did she learn to swear?) He clears his throat and motions. "That crate."

She is slow to react, but she spots it. Evidently the very last one to be packed, as the others are all full to the brim, this one is half-empty. She pulls off the tarp and clambers into it awkwardly onto a flat stack of books, wincing as her wounds sting: the space is big enough to fit her, and a large crate will give her space to breathe.

She will survive.

He steps over and she doesn't flinch. Another contradiction: she was running from him in terror several minutes earlier. She is either accepting of death, or too trusting, or both.

"I will cover you," he says quietly, and with a single move the white tarp is pulled over her head and tucked into the wood. She can hear him as he works, making sure it's tight enough not to come loose during the ride and loose enough so she can breathe.

"Why?"

He stops. She's not sure if it's because he heard her question, or because he's done with his work here.

"Don't think too much." _He doesn't sound all that young_, she realizes abruptly. _Maybe in his late thirties or early forties_. "Just live."

And then a blow to her head sends Ming spinning into darkness.

* * *

_The assassin runs. He doesn't look back to what may turn out to be either a sacrifice or a mistake._

_As he runs, his mind wanders back to that single question that he could not answer. It wasn't that he hadn't _known _the answer, he suddenly realizes; it was just that he couldn't say it._

_He just couldn't say that that mass of contradictions that was Ming Yao—child and woman, young and old, naïve and wise, emotional and uncaring—had felt, for the briefest of moments, like the thing he would never have. Like a daughter._

* * *

Her first thought when she wakes up is that the heat is almost unbearable, and she has a pounding headache and wounds that pulse along with it. Her second thought, then, is: _that assassin dude didn't plan things out very well, did he?_

Her third thought is, oh. _Oh._

Because she's opened her eyes, and standing above her are two grim-looking men with eyes the color of blood, and hair the color of moonlit desert sand.

* * *

"_The child is dead?"_

"_As a doornail."_

"_Very well, then. Your pay."_

_The assassin bows in thanks and leaves, hoping that he has told a lie._

* * *

The Ishballan guerilla-trade base she has woken up in, she gathers, is located about a mile or two from the Youswell Coal Mine. Youswell is a town not of any significance to the general population, but nonetheless quite significant to the Ishballan and Amestrian militaries: the area supplies quite a generous amount of coal. That is, to its country, of course.

So the Ishballans have decided, of course, to strike there.

She's come to Amestris at a most inopportune moment, she realizes: tensions are high and suspicions are higher, and although no one should have reason to suspect a six-year-old child, she is still a child who now knows the location of an Ishballan guerilla-trade base, and they cannot afford to let her go. Nor, however, she discovers, do the Ishballans have any more supplies to provide for such a child.

"You will go hungry for a while, which I gather you're not used to," one man informs her, his crimson eyes lingering on the rare silk of her Xingese pajamas. She looks down, suddenly feeling ashamed. "I'm sorry, but you are here at a bad time for all of us."

The attack, she learns, will take place a week from now. The "soldiers," such as they are, are polite, kind, and she can see fathers and sons in many of them; but they are grim-faced. Their Amestrian is formal and awkward in an almost endearing way.

They have no uniforms, but their traditional Ishballan dress is enough: they are protecting their people with every inch of strength they have.

(Ironic because it is her people that she needs protecting from.)

There aren't all that many men, she realizes. The Ishballans are outnumbered and outgunned, and they know it. She gets to know some of them, too, in a strange way.

There's Cassiel, serious and a father through and through. _"I'm sorry we have to treat a child this way," he apologizes._

There's Shana, a would-be joker from another time, another place, with a host of battle scars. _"Oh, see these?" he grins good-naturedly. "This is from when I was chasing a rabbit down a well—no, don't laugh! It really happened!"_

There's Enric, a bookworm and a warrior both. _"The Amestrians have some of it right," he admits. "Strategy, real strategy—it has to come from book learning, too. Not just blind fighting, which is what we are doing here."_

What she finds odd is that a shipment of goods would arrive at a time like this. It is a puzzle she does not understand until they explain that it was ordered before the war began, and foreign countries such as Xing are not aware of Amestris's situation. The military leaders feel that it would be seen as a sign of weakness, a signal for nations like Drachma to strike.

(The shipment is sent on to its recipients. She remains.)

She is kept in a locked room, not unlike a comfortable jail cell, but she understands that the barrenness is out of necessity and not cruelty, and that the lock is to keep her from escaping and revealing the base's location to the world. She understands.

And it is that understanding that keeps her from telling them that the war is hopeless, their struggles are futile, that all will end in death and massacre—and the Amestrians will eventually pay for it. Adults won't believe a six-year-old child.

These desperate fighters won't believe in anything that doesn't give them hope.

_(She wonders briefly if they might have a chance of winning this battle, and then she thinks that optimism isn't like her.)_

Battle comes, and she's left to wait in the base, a child with a child's role. They've left the door unlocked: if they survive, they'll come back to find her. If they don't, locking it will only mean her starving to death in a godforsaken cell.

Minutes pass. She stares at the ceiling: it's a mix of concrete and granite, gray and white and black, like a kind of natural tile.

_(They didn't say the operation would be fast.)_

Hours. There are cracks. She counts 114,740 of them.

_(Every moment she hears the sound of a lock clicking….)_

Days. She feels hunger gnawing at her stomach and, unable to control it, she at last helps herself to the Ishballan rations.

_(…a doorknob turning…)_

A week. She's taken to drawing Rentanjutsu circles all over the floor and the walls, for lack of anything else to do. It's calming, at the very least.

_(pounding footsteps down the hall)_

Two weeks. And then there's gunfire.

"Put your hands up!" The voices are different. They are gruffer, rougher-sounding, ironically more rustic than the Ishballans, with an accent she cannot quite place.

She does not start when the door to her room slams open with a bang, and guns are pointed her way.

"Put your—wha—a kid...?"

Blue uniforms, so familiar and yet so foreign. She stares at them with fascination: the fabric is rougher, coarser than anything Arakawa could draw, with more lines, more details that can be captured with paper and ink.

The gold is dull from sand and wear, but still gleams like a sort of outline.

They're only wearing the pants. The full uniform would not be required for a field operation, obviously…

"Did those Ishballan dogs take you prisoner?" She does not answer the question. "Well, don't worry, we took care of them. You're safe now. We'll get you home in no time." He turns his grizzled head and shouts down the hall, declaring for the world to hear, "Hey Ever! EVER! I found a kid!"

_Cassiel, serious and a father through and through. _Scritch.

"What, you serious?" A brunette pokes his head through the doorway. After days of white and then nothing, the color comes as a shock to her.

_Shana, a would-be joker in another time, another place, with a host of battle scars._ Scratch.

"Guess they figured they'd go for a hostage or ransom," the first soldier snorts, disdain coating his voice. "Dirty bastards."

_Enric, a bookworm and a warrior both. _Scritch.

"Well, guess it's a good thing they're dead," the brunette nods. "We've checked the perimeters. There's no one in sight."

"Guess that really was all of them. Right, kid, why don't you come with us—"

She slams her hands against the wall, and what was once _their_ base explodes into flashing light and rubble and bloody screams.

"_**Devil child!"**_

_Why?_

* * *

_Why?_

"_Your sister, the princess, has passed away."_

_With two words, his world begins to shatter._

* * *

It is a rainy day, the kind of day that spells gray and gloom and funerals. On the streets of East City the people are few and far between, hurrying against the wind with umbrellas held out in front of them like shields and lances.

"Are you sure you'll be okay in this weather? Maybe we should try heading back—"

"Aw, honey, it's sweet of you to worry, but I'll be fine. I really do want to try out that restaurant my friend recommended. This is our first time in East City, after all…"

In the middle of the sidewalk, staring up at the sky, is a figure tiny against the city. A pair of footsteps stops.

"Hey, kid." There's a rustling sound, like someone kneeling down. "What are you doing out here in this weather?"

The child is wearing nothing but the tattered remains of what looks like some kind of silk, so tattered the woman can't tell what it was supposed to be. Upon closer inspection, she can't tell what color it's supposed to be, either, because the crimson red she had thought to be its original hue now gives off the acrid scent of blood.

"Where are your parents?"

The child's black hair is a wild, tangled mess, like it hasn't been brushed for days or weeks or months, and the rain and blood have plastered it to her skin. The woman brushes some of the hair away to find a treasure trove of bruises, cuts, a black eye…

"What happened to you?"

She's on the ground, her hands clasped together in front of her like some twisted form of prayer. Or perhaps they would be, but one arm is slightly crooked; it looks like a broken bird's wing.

"Aren't you cold?"

The child's skin is as clammy as the dead, and just touching it sends shivers down the woman's skin.

Her hands make their way to the child's forehead: burning.

Pulse: fluttering, rapid then nothing, racing then slow, like a hummingbird, like death.

Her husband is holding the umbrella over them. A wordless communication makes its way between the couple; he nods and hands her the umbrella, then bends down to scoop the girl up in one swift move. (She does like the strong and silent type, after all.)

They're an odd trio. A woman, a giant of a man, both running, him with the tiny broken child even tinier in his arms. The woman keeps an umbrella in one hand and a map in the other.

The child's eyes are glassy and empty, black holes behind windowpanes, huge in the thin, small face. _Stare at them for too long, they'll suck you in._

"We'll get you home," Izumi Curtis promises.

_**So just cling to life for a little while longer.**_

* * *

**Edited 8.9.13**


	3. II: genius

**.S. I. N. H. E. A. R. T.**

**II.**

**_genius_**

"**Genius is childhood recovered at will." – Charles Baudelaire**

"**Great geniuses have the shortest biographies. Their cousins can tell you nothing about them." – R. W. Emerson**

* * *

The grave has no body.

But there was blood at the site, blood and all the telltale signs of a desperate struggle, and who are they to question the evidence?

Ming Yao is dead.

_But the grave has no body._

The funeral ceremony is a hushed, quiet affair, with only the highest ranking Yao as attendees. The Emperor does not bother making an appearance. The five thousand members of the Yao clan mourn in their homes, in their own fashion.

It's a beautiful grave; a lovely shrine for the deceased mother and daughter. The stone is white—the Xingese color of mourning—and is wreathed day and night with bouquets of white rose and wisteria and jasmine.

_But the grave has no body._

The gravestone is fairly large, even for that of royalty; in the evening its shadow dwarfs the child weeping before it, like a twisted black monster sucking him in.

"I'll be Emperor," Ling whispers, bravely scrubbing away at his eyes with his sleeve. "I'll be Emperor. An' I'll be strong, for Minmin. Minmin, Ming, Ming, Ming, I'll be strong—" And then his courage breaks like little boys' dreams, and the tears come faster and faster like memories. "S-So, please, p-please—"

_Let me be weak, if only for this one moment in time._

…_**but the grave has no body.**_

* * *

The East City station is always bustling and full of hubbub in the mornings. The building is filled with the smell of gasoline and coal, coffee and concrete; with businessmen, grandmothers, families, engineers, working boys selling packets of tea and _The East City Times_ for fifty cents each.

The woman at the ticket counter sets down her expresso, clearing her throat. "May I help you?"

"I'd like three tickets to Dublith, please. Two adults and one child." A wad of bills is pushed forward; she accepts them and counts them meticulously.

The family before her—what else could they be?—is small: a father, a mother and a little girl. All three of them are black-haired and black-eyed. The woman coughs occasionally, as if she's recovering from a cold. The man is gigantic and looms above his wife; his daughter, standing beside her mother, is absolutely tiny in comparison.

"How old is your child?" the worker asks idly as she pushes forward the tickets.

There's a flicker of surprise in the mother's coal-black eyes before she answers, matter-of-factly, "We don't know."

The worker with the pearl earrings opens her mouth, but the family has already walked away.

* * *

"_What is your name?"_

"_I don't know."_

"_How old are you?"_

"_I don't know."_

"_Where do you live?"_

"_I don't know."_

"_Where are your parents?"_

"_I don't know."_

"_Who are you?"_

"…_I don't know."_

* * *

The doctors called it "amnesia," or "selective memory loss." She knows the term. It scares her sometimes how much she knows, because they've told her she's just a little girl, and little girls don't know this much.

So is she not a little girl, or does she not know anything?

Which is it?

Sometimes feels like she can remember things, but what she feels like she can remember only makes her realize how much more she's forgotten. It's like grasping for a candle in a blackout; even if you grab one, there's no guarantee you'll find a match.

And more often than not, there's nothing.

Everything is black and white and gray, and she can't remember what it was like to see in color.

The train is crowded. The big man picks her up and sets her down on the window seat, and she stares outside as the world blurs by.

About half an hour later, a woman comes by with a trolley and a smile that shows too many teeth. The woman asks if they want anything to drink; the couple both turn to the little girl sitting by the window.

(She has the absurd urge to ask for coffee. It scares her. Little girls don't drink coffee.)

When she doesn't answer, the black-haired woman smiles at the woman with the trolley and asks for water.

Another hour and the little girl's asleep in her seat. Her dreams are filled with equations and numbers and strange symbols she doesn't understand, and running and flashing lights and darkness. She wakes up in cold sweat when the black-haired woman has a coughing fit. Exhaustion lures her to sleep again…

Another two hours and she's awoken once more, this time by an eerie, otherworldly screaming. She jerks out of her seat and almost falls on the floor.

The black-haired woman seems amused, but ruffles her hair comfortingly. "Don't worry, nothing's wrong," she says smoothly. "There's a baby a few aisles behind us. He must be hungry."

Curious, she turns around.

He can't be more than a few months old. His eyes are squeezed shut, but they flicker now and then and she can catch a glimpse of blue. His face is red from screaming. His cheeks are shiny from tears and sweat. His hands clutch at something that isn't there, and his mother frantically bounces him up and down, throwing desperate looks at the man next to her (who holds up his hands in the universal "don't look at me" gesture).

He's not particularly cute. His voice is ear-splitting. His lung capacity is amazing. She can't hear _anything_ except his screaming.

The other passengers on the train are politely averting their eyes, and the black-haired woman tugs on her shirt gently, telling her that it's rude to stare.

But she can't tear her eyes away.

_falling falling falling but there's no one behind me to catch me screaming and honking and the screeching of tires and then the smell of burnt rubber and is that my blood and oh God I just want this to end_

For a while she simply kneels there, staring wide-eyed at the strangest and most familiar thing she's ever seen. Then, abruptly, she gets out of her seat—the black-haired woman says something but she doesn't hear—and walks down the aisle until she's hovering next to Panicked Mom, who seems to be at total and utter loss.

The baby wails. Two little fists shoot out at her.

_darkness darkness darkness_

_I cannot call him a stranger because we are suffering together_

Instinctively, she grabs them both. They're so _tiny. _"No," she scolds automatically, "bad baby, very bad. Stop it. You're upsetting your mama."

_Please, take care of my son._

The baby's wailing dies down as she speaks, and he unscrunches his face to peer up at her. She stares him down sternly. He whimpers.

"Shhh," she says. "Shh. No more crying. You're okay."

_I'll be the emperor, like Mother said I should! Minmin, I'll be emperor, and you can take care of the clan, like Mother said, so please don't, please don't cry_

He opens his mouth again and she backs away, careful for her eardrums.

He coos.

_Minmin, read a story!_

She lets go of his hands and they wave around happily before grabbing a fistful of her hair and stuffing it in to his mouth.

"Ew!" She tries to tug it back, but he holds on, insistent. "That's gross! Stop it! Let go, Li—"

He stares up at her with big, blue eyes.

_Minmin!_

She freezes.

_Blue—?_ No, that's not right. They're black. Black and narrow and fox-like, not blue and wide and almond-shaped. But they're blue. But they're not.

But they're blue.

_But they're not!_

But they are, and her mind flashes back and forth between the two, confusing her, confusing itself; what is she thinking of? Who is the voice in her head? Who is this baby?

She looks up and catches the equally blue eyes of his mother, who's staring at her with bemusement, and suddenly flinches and backs away. _What am I doing?_ She backs away more. The woman opens her mouth to do something—laugh, thank her, apologize—and she never does find out what it is because she shoots back to her seat, her head pounding.

_Let's play, Minmin!_

"Hey," the black-haired woman says with amusement, nudging her, "hey, it's okay. You didn't do anything wrong."

She squeezes her eyes shut. That's not enough, so she covers them with her hands. That's not enough, so she draws up her knees and buries her head in them, trying to find him in the white spots behind her eyes.

_Let's play hide-and-seek, Minmin! You're it!_

Where are you?

_I want more mooncakes! I want more! Please, please, pleeeeeease?_

_I'm gonna be emperor._

A hand grasps mine tightly, tightly, so tightly, we hold on to each other for dear life because we're all we've got.

_I'm not alone._

_**Ling.**_

_I'm not alone._

_**Ling.**_

She doesn't even realize she's clenching her fists so hard that her nails are digging into her skin and blood is trickling over her fingers.

The black-haired woman is gripping her hands. "What are you doing? Calm down!"

"Ming."

The little girl looks up at the woman of her own volition for the first time, and the woman is taken aback by the fire in the child's eyes.

"My name is Ming."

She's a girl in a coat two sizes too big and a blue sundress one size too small, with bloody fingers and bruises just fading beneath her skin, and eyes like flaming embers.

And suddenly, despite the last month, despite everything, the world seems to calm and slow and Izumi has to smile.

"Okay, then. Ming." She pauses. "My name is Izumi Curtis."

Ming looks at Izumi and the older woman sees something—shock? Recognition?—flashing through those burning eyes, and then Ming smiles. It's barely a smile, really. It's a curve of the lips, something between a smile and a smirk, like the wearer is laughing at herself.

"Yeah. I know."

* * *

She lives the next two years with her head buried in books and transmutation circles and martial arts. Her body grows, slowly but surely. Her mind stays the same as it always has: a ravenous monster, the way it craves knowledge, and sometimes she's afraid it will devour her too.

Izumi says she's a genius. "I'm not," she tells the older woman, but the words ring hollow like she's being falsely modest.

Izumi doesn't say it again.

It's pretty much assumed, at this point, that Izumi and Sig and Ming are a happy little family. Black hair and black eyes and the knack for alchemy have women walking past them commenting, "Oh, is that your daughter? She looks _just_ like you…"

When Ming looks carefully enough, she can see a look of pleasure flash across Izumi's face.

She's a kindhearted woman, and she catches on fast. It's kind of just assumed, gradually, that Ming doesn't remember anything, and Izumi asks no questions.

She's a kindhearted woman who has already lost one child. The bloody coughing bears witness.

It shakes Ming, at first, to be treated like an adult and not like a kid, but she grows to appreciate it. And sometimes, when the training is over and she can close her eyes and feel Izumi's hand on her head, she can almost pretend.

Because it's not that hard, really, pretending that Izumi is the mother who isn't dead, that Sig is the father who hasn't ignored her for six years of her life, that Mason is the uncle who didn't try to kill her.

She doesn't, though. She won't taint them all by associating them with the twisted family she doesn't want to remember, that has her waking up in the middle of the night in cold sweat. She won't taint them all by associating them with a girl who's not a girl, who's not even a person anymore, not really. She doesn't know _what_ she is. Along the street of the Curtises' butcher shop she's known as "Izumi's little genius," but she's not a genius, either.

She knows she isn't.

But no matter what she does, it's always been like this. They can only see her body and not the adult's mind hidden behind the childish face. In Xing, she satisfied the cravings of her mind with stolen books and ink and paper, and those people called her a demon, a spirit, a curse.

These people say she's a genius.

She's not sure if there's that much of a difference.

No matter how many names they give her, though, she won't stop telling them that they're wrong. She's not a monster or a demon or a genius. She's not. _I'm not._

She's just a girl who was born too early too late, ahead of her time and out of it, lost in a world that isn't hers.

* * *

_**What is your name?**_

_Ming._

_**How old are you?**_

_Fourteen. Six. Twenty. I don't know._

_**Where are you from?**_

_Dublith. Xing. Earth. Hell. I don't know._

_**Where are your parents?**_

_Dead. In another world. Out there. I don't know._

"_**Who are you?"**_

"…_**I don't know."**_

* * *

The Dublith library is huge.

It has books piled here and books piled there, and bookshelves and desks of old, musky wood, and a sharp-nosed librarian with a tight bun and horn-rimmed spectacles, and the signs that say _shh it's the library!_ and _inside voices!_ and _keep it down._ It has that atmosphere that some call oppressive, some call warm, some call discouraging, some call cozy.

The librarian at the counter usually sits and glares through her horn-rimmed spectacles. Not today, though. Today is a Sunday, and barely anyone comes in on Sundays.

So today the librarian at the counter sits and reads, and her eyes occasionally flicker over to the only other occupant in the room.

_It's the same little girl_, the librarian always thinks.

Every Sunday, there's a little girl who comes in and spends six hours curled away in a chair, a tower of books tipping precariously at her side and a volume with faded yellow pages sitting open in her lap. Exactly six hours, without fail. She comes in at one thirty and leaves, every Sunday, at precisely seven thirty. Closing time, on the dot.

She's a precocious little child, the librarian often thinks.

It's rude of the librarian to pry (and god forbid she be rude!), but she can't help her curisoity. So whenever the little girl walks over to the counter and pushes her books over the rim, the librarian glances over the titles: _Scientific Advancements of the Century. Philosophy and Alchemy. A Modern History of Amestris. The Principles of Mathematics._

The librarian knows the girl, of course. She's the daughter of the butcher who lives uptown, the butcher who has an alchemist for a housewife. It's only natural, then, that the daughter of such a woman studies so.

But still, it rankles the librarian a bit when she opens _Philosophy and Alchemy_ and finds that she can't understand a single word.

The girl's visits are like clockwork. Every Sunday at one thirty she enters the Dublith library, returns her books from last week, and then dives into equations and alchemy and history and who knows what else; and at seven twenty-five she gets up and checks out her books; and she leaves at seven thirty.

The next Sunday she comes back, and it's the same. One thirty, entrance. Seven twenty-five, check out. Seven thirty, exit.

But not this particular Sunday. This particular Sunday the librarian is rattled, shocked even, when it's seven o'clock sharp and the little girl's voice floats over the counter: "Uhm, can I please check these out?"

The librarian sets down her ancient novel and glances up at the clock, then glances back down again, blinking rapidly. "Ex—excuse me?"

The butcher's daughter with short black hair blinks back at her. "My books. I'd like to check them out, please."

"Oh, yes, that's fine," she grabs the books hurriedly, and her eyes glance over the titles—_Of Alchemy and Chemistry; The Country of Xing; Amestris and Drachma: a Militaristic Assessment; Greate Alchemysts_—and within a minute she pushes them back. "Here you go."

The little girl, staggering a little under the weight of her burden, turns to walk away, and the librarian can't help but ask— "What's the occasion?" She flushes again. She hadn't meant to pry... at the little girl's questioning look, the grown adult flounders. "It's only seven—…"

"Oh," says the little girl, and she grins an irrepressible grin of triumph and sadness and joy. "We have guests coming over to dinner tonight!"

And then she's out the door with the grin on her face and a bounce in her step, and the librarian with the tight bun and the horn-rimmed glasses is left to wonder.

In the evening, the streets of Dublith are lit up by the scarlet sunset. People power-walk through the waning heat, eager to find their ways home, and no one has time to look up and notice the clouds painted in violet streaks across the crimson sky.

Then there's Ming. She walks around with her arms full of books and her face tilted towards the sun. She squints and counts the colors: blue and red and pink and violet and indigo and gold—

Their eyes are gold.

If she remembers correctly, their eyes are gold.

A sign, capitals and white and standing tall, wood and paint and crisp. BUTCHER. A door. Its hinges are in need of oiling; she'll need to fix that later…

A nudge with her hip, and the door creaks, and the conversation stops.

She steps in leaning against the door to keep it open, arms full of books and face turned away. "I'm back."

Comes the automatic response: "Good timing, we just started dinner. Go wash up."

"Kay." She kind of wants to laugh, really, because it sounds so normal and sometimes she can almost forget. But she turns around, and there they are: gold hair and gold eyes and bright future.

The books in her arms spill out beautifully, like autumn leaves.

For a moment she stares at them and they stare at her. There's an awkward silence during which she knows they're appraising her, and she's just looking at them, and the adults are watching them like spectators of a sports game. Wondering if the kids will get along.

It's the younger one who breaks the silence. "Um, nice to meet you." His voice is soft and high, like a girl's, and his eyes are bigger, rounder, wider; his blond hair is soft like pillow feathers. "I'm Alphonse Elric."

She blinks. "Oh. Um, Alphonse. Okay. Nice to meet you." And she nods like she hasn't known this all along.

His brother is already tougher than he is; you can tell just by looking at them. He's got a stubborn chin, a face used to both frowning and grinning, and sharp gold eyes. Alphonse's eyes are gold, too, but they're warm and inviting like sunlight.

His brother got the part of the sun that burns.

"I'm Edward Elric," he announces, like it's some kind of title. And to her, it is.

It takes her a while to figure out that they're both waiting for her. "Oh," she says dumbly. In vague panic she suddenly remembers that speaking with people is not and has never been her forte. "I'm. Ming." She tries to force an awkward smile, for the sake of things. "…nice to meet you."

The three of them look at each other for a little longer.

Suddenly, there's the clatter of a chair as Edward Elric pushes himself away from the table and glares. "I don't like you," he spits. Then he dashes out of the room.

"Brother!" Alphonse says immediately.

But Edward is long out of earshot. And before Ming can even comprehend that things have gone horribly wrong, the younger Elric is out the door too, chasing after the only family he has left.

* * *

If there's one thing that Ming remembers about Edward Elric, it's that he's as stubborn as a mule and, which the situation calls for it, twice as ornery.

"He's a nine-year old kid," Izumi tells her. "He's older than you, but he's still a kid—" _in all the ways you're not_ "—so give him some time. He'll come around."

If there's one thing that Ming knows about herself, it's that she is not a people person and that's part of the reason why, sadly, she has no friends to speak of. The other part is that she's a teenager in a little girl's body, and it's a little awkward to play house when you'd much rather be studying the periodic table.

"Just let it go," Izumi tells her. "He'll come around on his own. It's not like you did anything wrong, so there's no use apologizing."

Edward watches her. She catches him at it sometimes, usually when she and Izumi are chatting about something or other and he's staring at them through the doorway, and when she looks around at him he whips away.

But he does watch her. She supposes it's natural for children to be curious.

Alphonse is nice enough; he's a sweet little boy, and he really is a little boy. He tries to be mature, though, and it's endearing to watch him try. It kind of reminds her of—of Ling. Except that they're both smart, clever, sharp; genii, even. She doesn't train with them; Izumi says she's past that point. She does her chores, runs errands for the shop, reads on her own, spars with Izumi occasionally, spends more and more time at the library, and does whatever she can to keep busy.

She tries not to let it get to her but it's awkward. Especially at dinner, when Edward sits across from her and he occasionally deigns to send a glare her way, and Alphonse looking back and forth between them with an expression like he wants to wring his hands but can't because he's a boy.

She's washing dishes after one awkward night, reciting the periodic table under her breath.

"Aluminum, silicon, phosphorus, sulfur, uh—um—er—"

"Chlorine," says Alphonse, suddenly standing next to her. He smiles shyly, tentatively, when she looks at him. "Um…can I help?"

"Oh. Yeah, sure. Go ahead." She moves over a little to give him some room, and they settle into routine almost immediately: she washes. He dries.

She's in the middle of a cheap porcelain-imitation plate when the thought comes to her. "Hey, why does your brother hate me so much?"

Alphonse pauses while wiping a glass and flails slightly. "No, Brother doesn't _hate_ you! He just…he just doesn't…um—"

"Like me," she supplies bluntly. He meekly nods his head. "Why not?"

At this, Al shrugs and mumbles, "Don't know."

From which she concludes that he doesn't want to tell her.

Then another week and a half flashes by. Now it's Sunday afternoon and she's curled in a chair, a tower of books tipping precariously at her side and a volume with faded yellow pages sitting open in her lap.

"Hey."

She looks up and she blinks; Edward Elric is standing in front of her, an uncertain look on his face. Not sure what to say, she offers a weak, "…um. Hey."

He shifts from foot to foot, refusing to look at her. His cheek is red.

"Did Izumi slap you?" she asks before she can stop her idiot mouth.

For a moment, he looks like he's about to argue, but then he closes his mouth and shrugs noncommittally. Feeling sorry for him, she flaps her hand. "Um, if you don't want to, you can go—"

"Why do you call her Izumi?" he blurts.

Her brow furrows: "Why not?"

"It's weird!" he shoots back immediately, a child who doesn't want to lose a child's argument. "You're not supposed to call your mom by her first name!"

Oh. _Oh._

Realization strikes her like a bolt of lightning.

Edward Elric is _jealous._

Of _her_.

Of the mother's love he no longer has, the exclusivity he had been hoping to sort of find in this new place, this new relationship between master and student, of what he thinks he sees between her and Izumi, of what he has been longing for, all this time. Only he doesn't dare admit it. Admitting it would mean admitting a kind of subtle weakness, and he's a big boy, and he has to set an example for his little brother. He's a big boy. He's all grown up and he doesn't need to admit things like weakness and tears and longing for motherly love.

_Oh._

"Izumi's not my mom."

The library is silent with the kind of silence that make you think wide eyes and blank shock and, "What?"

"Izumi's not my mom," she repeats.

Child-Edward stares some more, and then he flounders. "Bu, but—you're not her apprentice, and—"

She knows what he's thinking; it's what they all think: _and you have black hair and eyes, just like her, and you're smart and good at alchemy, just like her, and…_

"What are you, then?" he asks, no longer brash and accusing, just curious.

Her only answer is a shrug. There's honestly no real answer to that one; she wishes there was. There are so many wishes. _If I was a normal kid, who ran away from home and got caught up in a bad situation and managed to be found, then maybe it would be okay. Maybe I could give her what she wanted. Maybe I could be what she wanted. But I'm not, and I can't._

Edward doesn't know that, though, so she says, "Look, let's try again." She holds out a hand. "I'm Ming."

She's forgotten, momentarily, that he's still a kid. He looks at her hand for a bit, and then clasps it slowly, hesitantly. "…Ed, Edward Elric."

They shake hands over _Philosophy of Alchemy_, and she thinks: I guess I do suck with people, but this isn't too bad of a start.

* * *

He glares, his eyes narrow, his pulse quickens. A bead of sweat drips down his neck as he tenses. Any moment now he will strike against his enemy, his nemesis. He is the predator. He is speed, he is strength, he is power.

"HYAAAAAAHH!"

"There's something called the element of surprise, you know," Ming says blandly as she grabs Edward's incoming foot with one hand. He crashes to the ground. She turns to face him, cradling her groceries. "Can I help you?"

"Ow."

A grin tugs at the corners of her mouth. "Sorry, sorry, instinct." She shifts the paper bags and then holds out a hand. "Here. Grab ahold."

Just as Edward's pulling himself up, Alphonse comes running up the road behind them, a half-reproachful and half-amused expression on his face. "Big Brother, you left me behind to attack Ming again!"

"Don't worry. Edward's too small to do any damage—"

"WHO ARE YOU CALLING SO SMALL HE CAN FALL IN A CRACK IN THE SIDEWALK—MMPHH!"

"Need me for something?"

"Uh, um, er—" Alphonse looks torn. "I don't know if it's good for Brother when you stuff a cabbage down his throat, Ming."

"It's okay."

"Huh?"

"Raw cabbage is a good source of calcium."

Edward throws her a pointed glare as he tries to pull the cabbage out of his mouth, turning a lovely shade of purple. "MMFMMPHHH!"

"If you say so," Alphonse says dubiously. "Um, Master said to tell you to hurry up, because she needs your help with dinner."

"Oh." Ming considers this. "Let's take our time, then."

"Eh?!"

"We can just tell her we got lost on the road of life."

At this point, Edward throws the cabbage on the ground. "What?! What does that _mean?!_"

Bickering, they meander back towards the old wooden store with the sign BUTCHER painted in bold white, and Ming doesn't remind them that it's their last day. She doesn't tell them that she wants to take her time so she can memorize them as they are now, smiling and innocent and sweet.

A pedestrian shakes his head behind them: "Curtis kids," he mutters.

She doesn't bother correcting him.

* * *

Well, they're big boys, so they know how to pack, and they know how to say goodbye. But sometimes they still make a mess of things.

She walks into their room. Clothes are strewn all over the floor and the books are left peeking out from under pillows. "Do you, uh, need any help?"

"It's okay, we're almost done," Alphonse says from where he's digging under the dresser.

She flips through a dog-eared copy of _Basic Alchemy_. "Almost done. Right."

"Hey, Al, where'd you put my toothbrush?" Edward stops short when he sees Ming sitting on his bed. "What?"

"Nothing." She tosses _Basic Alchemy_ into an open suitcase.

"Okay then. Al, where'd you put my toothbrush?"

"It should be in the bathroom."

"It's not in the bathroom!"

"I don't know where it is!"

"It's under the bed," Ming informs them both.

"Oh." Edward bends down, feels around on the floor, and pulls out his toothbrush (and grimaces, because it has dust bunny the size of a golf ball attached to it). "Wait, how'd you know?"

"Deductive reasoning."

"You just guessed?"

She ignores him.

None of them are good at goodbyes.

"So you guys are leaving tomorrow..."

She waits for a response. Edward shifts from foot to foot; Alphonse looks keenly interested in the space behind the drawers.

"…we'll be back."

"Huh?"

Edward jabs his finger at her fiercely. "We'll be back, okay?! And when we come back I'll definitely kick your ass, so don't forget it!"

Ming regards him with a tilted head. And then she cracks a tiny grin. "If Izumi hears you talk like that, she'll wash your mouth out with soap."

Edward blanches.

"We will visit, though!" Alphonse hurries in. "And you should come see Resembool too, Ming. The train ride's not that far, right? And you haven't met Auntie Pinako or Winry or Den yet."

There's no _Mom_ or _Dad_ in that sentence, and Ming takes a leap of faith.

"You ever heard the story of Icarus?" she says abruptly.

"Nope."

"Who's Icarus?"

"He was the son of this guy who made wings out of wax and metal. Stuff happened and they had to fly to escape an evil king, or something like that. But Icarus got drunk on his own power and flew too close to the sun. Know what happened to him?"

"He got sunburned?" Alphonse suggests.

"Close. The wax melted, his wings fell apart, and he fell into the ocean. Then he drowned and died."

There's the kind of silence that comes when people are trying very hard not to let themselves think about something, and then Edward mutters, "He was stupid. You can't make wings out of wax."

Ming scratches the back of her head. "Yeah, he was stupid. But you can't bring people back from the dead either."

The silence this time is shocked.

"Who said we were gonna?" Edward says defensively, while Alphonse simply tenses. Ming knows she's treading dangerous waters, but God knows she's never been one to shut up while she's ahead.

"I didn't say you were. I just said it's impossible." _I don't need you to tell me. I can see it in your eyes._

"Yeah, well, you don't need to tell us that! We're not stupid!" _We'll find a way._

"Really." _Liar._

"Are you saying I'm stupid?" _Are you saying I'm not good enough?_

"I didn't say that." _I'm saying that no matter how good you are, it's not good enough._

Alphonse's been looking back and forth, like he's watching a tennis match, and now he ventures, "How do you know it's impossible?" _How can we know until we try?_

"Do you really want to know?"

They're not listening. She's trying, but it's not getting through, and she finally realizes that it's already too late: they've already put everything in them into a corpse.

"Just shut up," Edward finally snaps. "What do you know?!" He's yelling now, his voice rising like buoyant lava. "So what if they say you can't bring people back to life? They just haven't tried it before, they're scared, that's how grown-ups are! They never try new things! That's how you are, too! You just don't get it—"

"Big Brother—"

"You've got Master and Mr. Sig and Mason and, and, you don't know what it's like, living without family! You don't know what it's like to lose a mom! We'll find a way, we'll bring her back, you just watch us!"

"If Izumi hears you, she'll slap you into next week."

The room falls silent, and Edward is panting, his child-hands curled into little fists, and Alphonse looks like he wants to cry. Edward jabs a finger at the door. "Get out," he snarls, putting all nine years' worth of animosity behind those two words.

"Don't fly too close to the sun," she manages to advise the Elric brothers, before Edward slams the door in her face.

* * *

None of the three children in the Curtis house sleep that night.

* * *

In the morning, Ming lies in bed and listens as Izumi calls her for the sixth time, gives up, and leaves the house with everyone else.

That day she realizes, for the first time, that the station is too far away from the Curtis house for her to hear the whistle of the departing train.

* * *

**Edited 8.10.13**


	4. III: fool

**.S. I. N. H. E. A. R. T.**

**III**

_**fool**_

"**If you are going through hell, keep going." – Winston Churchill**

"**For everything you have missed, you gain something else, and for everything you gain, you lose something else." – Ralph W. Emerson**

* * *

"I bought you a train ticket," Izumi announces on Ming's birthday two years later, slapping an envelope onto the table.

There's a collective silence.

And then Ming mutters, "I don't think you should be allowed to say what your present is before someone opens it," leading Izumi to slap her upside the head.

"Don't be cheeky! You stole a slice of cake before I brought it out for us to share, so we're even!"

"But it's my _birthday_," Ming points out cheekily. "I should be allowed to have cake on my birthday."

Actually, this is _not_ the day Ming was born, and everyone knows it. But somehow (no one really remembers how it came about), the day that Izumi and Sig brought Ming to Dublith has become Ming's "adopted birthday;" so today, Ming is "adoptedly" five years old.

Ming doesn't really mind, though. Izumi's a good cook, and she's especially talented at baking. And the presents are always a plus…

"A train ticket?" Ming opens the envelope tentatively and one bold red word immediately catches her eye:

RESEMBOOL.

"Oh." She pauses. "Wait a sec, Izumi, you're not—"

"You haven't travelled outside of Dublith since you first came here, right?" Izumi prompts. "You've been working nonstop ever since Ed and Al left. I want you to go take a break."

"But the shop—"

The older woman raises an eyebrow. "Are you saying Sig and Mason and I can't manage on our own?"

Ming scrambles. "Uh, my training—"

"It's just a short vacation, don't worry about it." Izumi ruffles Ming's hair. "You just need to take your mind off things, sometimes. It's not good for you to be such a workaholic at this age."

"Can't I just take a vacation here—"

Izumi lightly thumps her on the head. "Stop looking for excuses. You're leaving tomorrow. I've already made arrangements for you to stay with Pinako Rockbell and her granddaughter; they're good friends with Ed and Al, so you should be fine."

"But…" Ming trails off, racking her brain for an escape route.

Izumi smiles. It's a sad smile, like the kind that mothers wear when their sons go off to war.

"It'll be a good chance for you to clear your head."

She rests her hand in Ming's hair.

"You miss them, don't you? It feels like you haven't been the same since they left."

Ming closes the envelope. "…I'll go."

"Good girl."

* * *

Resembool is a nice, backwater country town; small and quiet and unassuming. There are rolling green hills that stretch for as far as the eye can see, and a wide river that glimmers in the evening sunset, and lovely patches of dark glen in the valleys.

That's what Ming's been told.

It's unfortunate that the day she reaches Resembool it's pouring cats and dogs, and the only thing she can see is mud and rain.

She's standing in the middle of the empty road with no shelter from the rain but a lightweight poncho. The mud feels like it's creeping into her shoes. The ragged white thing in her hands was originally a piece of paper with written directions; now it's just unreadable.

No one is available to pick her up, she was told, because Pinako has to manage her automail business, and Ed and Al and Winry have school.

"Huh. What's the best thing to do in this kind of situation?"

She feels strangely calm, though. It could be because the sky's such a nice, unassuming gray this evening…

The smartest thing to do would be head back to the station, where the nice lady at the counter can probably give her directions. Only—

"…how do I get back to the station?"

She has no sense of direction.

It must seem a little strange for someone to get lost when there's only one road, she guesses, but somehow she can't remember the way she came, and she's pretty sure she took a shortcut through grass at some point. So, what the heck. Ming decides to just keep walking.

The rain pelts her, penetrates her poncho, and by the time she realizes that the road is taking her towards the river she's already soaked through to the bone. The mud is climbing steadily up to her knees. The sheet of paper with illegible directions was blown into the wind a long time ago.

The river's really raging today. It's huge and wide and roaring, and the waters are muddy and yellow. She watches it for a moment, mesmerized by its sheer magnitude, amazed by the raw power nature can contain.

And that's when she hears the screaming.

…_help…_

It starts out quietly at first, drowned out by the lashing of the rain. But it gets steadily louder and louder and then it becomes otherworldly wailing, eerily familiar.

Only this time, the wailing takes shape and forms words:

_HELPHELPHELPI'MGOINGTODIESOMEONEHELP—_

It's screaming and crying and choking all at once, desperate and pleading and weak, and before she knows it she's racing down to the riverbank.

It's not hard to spot him, even in the rain. A little brown spot bobbing up and down in the waters of the Resembool River.

A little boy. He flails and goes under for a moment and her heart almost stops, and then he bobs back up again, and she remembers how to breathe.

Because for a moment that spiky brown hair was _black_, and his voice was higher, his eyes—

Screaming.

_SOMEONEHELP—_

Without a second thought, (because what the hell, she's soaked through anyway) she dives into the river.

It wasn't that great of an idea; the water is absolutely _frigid._ She can practically feel her body heat being sucked away. The river rages against her, wild and fierce and unrelenting.

The little boy's being swept along, and his screaming is getting weaker.

_Someone help…_

She grits her teeth, musters up her willpower, and pushes against the current.

"Just hold on!"

The sound of a human voice seems to reenergize him, and he starts screaming again.

"OVER HERE—SOMEONE, I'M RIGHT HERE—HELP ME—"

Almost there. She's almost there, she can just touch him—

The waves buffet them both and pull them apart, and he screams again.

"_HELP!_"

She hears the water roaring in her ears, feels the rain pelting her.

"I'm right here! Hold on—I'll grab you—"

But it's easier said than done, and the current pulls them in circles around each other, and his eyes are wild and desperate and hers are wilder and more desperate.

"Don't panic—just hang on—"

His eyes are closing—

"Dammit, dammit, stay with me—"

—his mouth is gaping, his limbs stop flailing—

"Wake up! Wake up, dammit!"

—his head falls under—

"_NO!_"

In a sudden burst of adrenaline, she grabs the child's sinking arm and kicks, like a madman, against the elements. He comes alive again and yells in protest; she's gripping him too hard.

"Good! The pain will keep you awake—hang on—OW—"

She's hit her head on a branch that swirled down with the current. Dizzy—the urge to close her eyes and just let the river take over, sweep her away, is strong.

No. _No_. Not when there's a child to save and a river to fight_._

Finally, finally, her searching fingers dig into mud and grass and, with her very last ounce of strength, she hauls herself and the boy onto the shore. They both collapse, panting, gasping for precious oxygen (_I'll never take you for granted again_, Ming thinks hazily).

An old lady, attracted by their screaming, peers down at them from the riverbank. Then she runs down, huffing from the effort. "Hey—hey, kids, are you alright?!"

And in the pouring rain, Ming recognizes the tall gray bun, the small glasses, the crow's feet.

"Pinako," she pants, and the name is pure, beautiful relief. "Help—the boy—"

And then she knows no more.

* * *

She has a bunch of really weird dreams full of lions and gorillas and ugly lizards.

Sometimes she's half-awake with her eyes closed, and she hears hushed voices and whispers, but mostly she's dead to the world. Occasionally she'll catch bits of conversation, but none of them make sense. At times she'll struggle to stay up, but she's too tired and sleep is too inviting…

The first time she opens her eyes, there's a pretty little girl with blonde hair and blue eyes leaning over her. The girl gasps and leans back, as if she's seen a ghost.

"Where…am…?"

"Grandma, she's awake!"

And the girl runs off, leaving Ming with her hand stretched out and her vision dimming.

"Wait…"

The third or fourth time she wakes up, there's Izumi, smoothing her hair and stroking her cheek and murmuring softly.

"You'll be alright…"

Ming wants to speak but she can't open her mouth, and soon she fades away again.

* * *

_Darkness. So dark there is nothing but shadow._

_Where_

_Silence. So silent the thoughts scream._

_am_

_Empty. So empty the world is alone._

_I_

_A single darkness, a single person, a single world. A single truth._

_A toothy grin dawning like the sun on armies._

_**Welcome.**_

* * *

When she finally wakes up for good, the first things she's aware of are the grumbling of her stomach and a combination of scents: metal, oil, the mouth-watering smell of beef stew.

"You're up," Pinako Rockbell comments. She stirs the stew with a giant spoon about the same size as her bun, then scoops some up to taste. "Hungry?"

Ming, eyes fixed on the stew, nods.

"The doctor said you would be." The old lady sets down the spoon and reaches into a drawer for a bowl. "You gave us quite a scare, you know."

Ming opens her mouth only to find that it's too dry for her to croak anything except, "Water." She gulps the glass Pinako hands her gratefully, and then she can finally ask, "How long have I been out?"

"Almost two weeks." Pinako passes her a bowl of stew. Ming inhales: it smells like heaven. "Your mother came by the third or fourth day to check on you. Said she would've come earlier but was busy with the shop."

The stew is scalding hot and makes her eyes water, but it tastes so _good_. "Where am I?"

"My kitchen. It was easier to keep an eye on you here." Pinako cracks a grin. "You knew my name before you passed out, so I'm guessing you remember it now."

She nods. "Ms. Rockbell." And then she remembers more: "The boy?"

For a moment Pinako looks at her incredulously, and then the old woman laughs. It's an old, warm, ringing laughter, grandmotherly and comfortable; Ming wipes her mouth on her sleeve as she waits for her to stop.

"Quite the little hero, aren't you?" Pinako leans against the counter. "The boy's alright. He was sick for a while, too, but he's been up and about for around four days now. You kids recover fast." Then she nods at the dinner table. "That there—a gift from his family."

Ming follows her gaze and almost drops the stew. A basket of bread, vegetables, some bottles of medicine—"Give it back," she says, her mouth dry. "Make them take it back. I don't need it."

Pinako laughs again. "Oh, I can't do that. You're from the city, you wouldn't understand—folks around here have their pride. Just accept their thanks."

Her eyes harden.

"I'm not in any position to scold you, but I'm telling you right here and now that that was a stupid thing you did." And now there's anger in her eyes—anger and sympathy and understanding, and the fear of losing a child. "Do you _know_ how dangerous that river is during flood season? You and that boy could have very well died."

Ming feels indignant fury bubble up in her chest. "If I hadn't gone in, he _would_ have died," she retorts.

They glare at each other for a moment, and then Pinako sighs and nods. "Fair enough. Well, finish that stew. At this rate, you'll be good to leave by tomorrow."

They sit in comfortable silence punctuated by Ming's slurping.

Then there's the pounding of footsteps and a dog barking and a little girl's voice calling, "Grandma! I smell beef stew!"

The door slams open.

Ming finds herself staring face-to-face at Winry Rockbell.

She's a very pretty little girl, and at first glance you'd take her for one of those blonde daddy's baby angels with cherub faces and sweet smiles and big blue eyes, the kind that brought about the saying "sugar and spice and everything nice." But her chin is stubborn, through and through, and her hands already beginning to gain calluses and oil stains. She looks at Ming with an expression that's curious and wary at the same time.

"Um," says Ming, feeling oddly self-conscious. "Hi."

Winry's face breaks out into a bright smile. "Hello! You're finally up! Grandma said you would be!"

"Oh. Is that…so?"

"Mm-hm! Oh, my name's Winry. Winry Rockbell. You're Ming, right? That's your name?"

"Yeah."

Winry skips over and starts scooping herself some stew. "It's gonna be so much fun having another girl around. Ed and Al are so boring, they keep secrets all the time…" She trails off as she turns around. "What's wrong?"

Ming's knuckles are white. "Keep secrets?" she repeats, gripping her bowl.

Why does that sound vaguely familiar?

"U-Um…yeah," Winry says slowly. "Keeping secrets. Boy stuff, you know? They won't tell me anything," she adds, a complaint and an excuse at the same time.

Ming doesn't respond. Pinako, sensing the tension between the two children, changes the subject. "Are Ed and Al coming to dinner?"

"They said they have something to do tonight. Probably making up some homework." Winry scrunches up her face in thought. "They're so weird. I mean, who gets excited over homework?"

But Ming's face is white, pure white, and she doesn't even notice that the bowl has cracked and the scalding stew is leaving pink rivers of burns down her skin until Pinako lets out an exclamation of alarm and hurried forward with a wet towel.

"_They keep secrets all the time…"_

"…_excited…"_

Pinako staggers as Ming throws back the covers and practically leaps out of bed, sprinting for the door.

"Hey—what do you think you're doing?! You can't run out there in your condition!"

"Where're you going?" Winry calls. "Aren't you sick?"

Ming halts.

Then she turns around as she wrenches the door open, and the grandmother-granddaughter pair is frozen by the raw desperation in her eyes.

"_Which way is the Elric house?_"

* * *

_water_

Years and years of longing and effort and struggle and tears have all come down to this.

_water carbon_

His hands are shaking when he makes that final mark. The white chalk glows silver in the dim lamplight. Perfect. Every line has to be perfect.

_water carbon ammonia_

"What should we say to her first when we see her?"

"Isn't it obvious?"

_water carbon ammonia phosphorus salt_

"'_**Don't tell Ming!'"**_

_water carbon ammonia phosphorus salt saltpeter_

Their makeshift laboratory stinks of chemicals and of things burning, things forgotten, things left behind.

_water carbon ammonia phosphorus salt saltpeter lime sulfur _

The knife glints. With a quick flick the blood bubbles red, red, red, thick and thin and life-giving. It stings, but neither of them shrinks from the pain: they are already far too familiar with sacrifice.

_water carbon ammonia phosphorus salt saltpeter lime sulfur fluorine_

His heart is in his mouth and it's like his very soul is quivering. Everything will start over from this point on.

"**Here it goes."**

The hands fall and the brilliant light flashes and in a moment the entire universe is contained in that little dustpan of stones and liquid and life.

_water carbon ammonia phosphorus salt saltpeter lime sulfur fluorine iron silicon—_

"GET AWAY!"

For a moment the transmutation itself seems to falter as a familiar figure throws herself into the room, her desperate face lit by unearthly blue glow.

"Wha—_Ming?_ What the hell are _you_ doing h—"

"SHUT THE HELL UP AND LISTEN TO ME!"

And then her eyes are wide with horror, and he hears Alphonse's quivering voice

"Big brother? Something's wrong—"

"_RUN, YOU IDIOT!"_ screams Ming.

But it's too late, and Alphonse screams in horror as the shadows wrap themselves around him like living writhing chains and Edward shrieks: "_AL!_"

—_worry about yourself, _a snide voice whispers, and he jerks around to find his leg being eaten away cell by cell—

Alphonse screams again as the shadows overtake him and the sound pierces Edward's very core.

"_**BIG BROTHER BIG BROTHER BIG BRO…TH…**_"

They take his left arm first. Then his legs, his torso, his shoulder, his chin, his head, his—

"_**AL! ALPHONSE!"**_

he tumbles forward, hand outstretched, but the right arm is disappearing

"_**NO!"**_

and in the blink of an eye, Ming is there, a whirl of black hair and wild eyes

"_**HOLD ON TO ME—"**_

and in a flash of blue light, all three of them are gone.

* * *

.

.

.

.

.

.

_Brightness. So bright the light cringes away._

"…hmm."

_Silence. So silent the thoughts scream._

"So this is…the Gate, huh?"

_Empty. So empty the world is alone._

"Kind of…anticlimactic…" She looks down. "A little bit of a let-down. It's weird not being able to see the floor, though…"

_A shadow, but no light._

"_**Welcome."**_

It's not a person, per se. It's like a blank in a sentence on a vocabulary test, where you know there's a word but no matter how much you think you can't find it. It's a void where a person should be.

"Truth." She turns around and promptly sits down, cross-legged. "Hi."

The empty not-so-person cocks Its head. "_**You're very calm about all of this."**_

"Yeah. Wonder why." She looks up. The space, the dimension, whatever it is—it's white, white, white all around, not quite glowing, just a little like nothingness. "Maybe it's just this place, but I feel like I don't have to worry about anything. Que sera sera, you know?"

"_**Hmm." **_Truth rests Its chin on Its hand. _**"And if I told you you were to stay here forever?"**_

"C'est la vie."

It laughs. The laughter is kind of comforting and kind of terrifying at the same time. It's not the laugh of a human; it's the laugh of a thing that knows with absolute certainty, that is always right, always confident, always everything. The only humans who laugh like that are madmen.

She waits patiently until It's done, and then she says: "Can I ask you a question, though?"

"_**Shoot."**_

"Why am I here?"

She doesn't mean _here_ as in the Gate, or _here_ as in this world. She means _here _as in her general existence, and Truth spreads Its arms wide.

"_**Who knows?"**_

"You're not going to tell me, huh."

"_**If you live long enough, you might find out."**_

"I guess I'll have to hold you to that." She mirrors It, resting her chin in her hand. "How's Alphonse?"

"_**Lost."**_

"And Edward?"

"_**Paying his toll."**_

"How are you here and there at the same time?"

"_**Because I'm you and them."**_

"Is it your job not to give straight answers or something?"

"_**Maybe." **_Truth crosses Its legs so the two of them are in the exact same pose. _**"But that depends on how you ask your questions, Alchemist."**_

"…the Elrics are idiots."

"_**Mm, they're fools. But aren't all you humans?"**_

She regards him. "…am I human?"

She's still calm, but it's a sleepy, drugged sort of calm, and if she weren't here and now she would be terrified and breathless, waiting for Its answer.

She can hear more laughter in Its voice. _**"That depends. What do you think?"**_

"I think I am."

"_**Then you are."**_

It's such a simple answer.

She thinks vaguely: if I weren't so calm, I might be crying.

"You know, you're surprisingly nice."

"_**Am I?"**_

"Yeah. I figured you'd be some kind of sadist." It doesn't respond to that. She shifts her chin to her other hand. "So, can I go now?"

"_**Don't let me keep you."**_

She doesn't stand up. "I don't have to pay a price?"

It laughs again. _**"You're not as foolish as the rest of them, so don't act like it. There's always a price."**_

_A toothy grin dawning like the sun on armies._

"_**Just not the one you're thinking of."**_

She stands up, still calm. "…I see." She half-turns to glance at the Gate behind her as her body starts to peel away from this reality, eyes traveling slowly up the words, still calm. "…where I come from, 'Adonai' is the old Hebrew word for 'God.'"

"_**Really, now? I wonder."**_

"I hope you're not God, though."

"_**Why not?"**_

She holds up a hand in farewell, calmly, right before she disappears. She's smirking the barest of smirks_._ "I've been an atheist for too long. I don't think I can give it up."

_A single darkness, a single person, a single world. _

_A single truth._

Truth holds up a hand, too, the grin that terrifies man and homunculus alike on Its face.

"_**See you later, Alchemist."**_

* * *

When she's back and all her cells are in one piece, Edward is screaming and screaming and Alphonse's _why-are-we-forsaken_ voice is echoing within a hollow cavity of metal.

_Don't worry,_ she wants to say. _When things are this shitty, they can only get better._

And then: _I really need to stop passing out,_ before she sinks back into familiar darkness.

* * *

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_**water**_

_**water carbon ammonia**_

_**water carbon ammonia phosphorus salt**_

_**water carbon ammonia phosphorus salt saltpeter lime**_

_**water carbon ammonia phosphorus salt saltpeter lime sulfur fluorine iron silicon**_

_**water carbon ammonia phosphorus salt saltpeter lime sulfur fluorine iron silicon**_

_**water carbon ammonia phosphorus salt saltpeter lime sulfur fluorine iron silicon-**_

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_**one**_

_**or all**_

_**or truth**_

_**or God**_

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_**or you.**_

* * *

_(And back in the space that isn't space and the white that isn't white, and the emptiness that isn't empty, the not-so-person is still holding up Its hand._

_And in that hand, slowly, slowly, something takes shape. And the grin that terrifies man and homunculus alike makes its way back onto Truth's face._

**_"There's always a price. Just not the one you're thinking of.")_**

* * *

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**PRESENT DAY**

**Liore, East Amestris**

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* * *

The Church of Leto was a building of grand proportions and grand ambitions.

It sat snugly atop a hill in the very center of Liore, towering over the rest of the city with its white columns and Lancet arches. Born of granite and marble from the local quarries, it housed a total of hundred and eight rooms, among them three chapels, a mass hall, and a bell tower. The interior was lined with glossy rosewood and oak specially imported from a faraway Eastern nation.

In the central hall stood an altar and, behind it, a marble carving of Leto. Below that, some faithful stonemason had etched an impromptu inscription:

_Believe, and you shall receive._

"He says he can resurrect the dead?" said Edward Elric. "Do you honestly believe that?"

Rose closed her eyes and thought of brown hair and blue eyes, and a smile and a heart as warm as the sun, and the I love yous that would never be said again.

"Yes."

Edward closed his eyes and thought of black hair and black eyes, and smile as infuriating as pursuit, and the apologies that had never been given.

"Water: 35 liters. Carbon: 20 kilograms. Ammonia: 4 liters. Lime: 1.5 kilograms. Phosphorus: 800 grams. Salt: 250 grams. Saltpeter: 100 grams. And various other trace elements…"

He snapped his pocketbook closed.

"That's the calculated material makeup of the average adult human body. Oh, and by the way? You can buy all of those ingredients from the average marketplace with the pocket money of a little kid." He looked up at Rose's startled expression and smirked. "We're pretty damn cheap, we human beings."

"A person isn't a thing!" Rose snapped immediately. "Your words are blasphemy towards the Creator!"

He laughed, and his laugh was amused and cynical and bitter. "Alchemists are scientists. We don't believe in vague things like 'the creator' and 'god.'" He paused. "But it's ironic that, as scientists pursuing the truth, we're the ones closest to being gods."

"Your hubris is disgusting," was Rose's reply.

Edward crossed his legs, his eyes sliding from the altar to the marble to the inscription beneath.

"Hubris, huh?"

_"You ever heard the story of Icarus?"_

"Now that you mention it, there was a myth like that, wasn't there?"

_"He was the son of this guy who made wings out of wax and metal...But Icarus got drunk on his own power and flew too close to the sun. Know what happened to him?"  
_

_"He got sunburned?"_

_"Close. The wax melted, his wings fell apart, and...he died."_

Alphonse bowed his head: to anyone watching them, it would have looked like the armor was in prayer.

_"He was stupid. You can't make wings out of wax."_

_"Yeah, he was stupid." Her eyes sharpened, and they flinched back— "But you can't bring people back from the dead either."_

Below the carving of Leto, some faithful stonemason had etched an impromptu inscription: "believe, and you shall receive."

And below that…

It took a few seconds for it to register, but when it did, Edward shot out of his nonchalant pose on the prayer bench like a rocket.

Below that—

"Hey!" He stepped towards Rose, who took a startled step back. "Hey, you!"

"Big Brother?"

"Rose, right? You hang around this place a lot, don't you?"

"I, I—"

"Big Brother, what's going on? What's—?" Alphonse's eyes fell on the inscription, and then what lay below it. "…oh. Oh!"

"So you should know, right?" Ed was working himself into a frenzy. "It doesn't matter how long ago, was there, did she—"

"Was there a girl?" Al interrupted, clanking out from behind the bench to join his brother. "Did a girl come by? A girl with black hair, around Big Brother's age?"

"Uh, um," Rose stammered. She took another automatic step back as the Elric brothers advanced. "I don't, I think…" She racked her mind frantically. "Y-yes! There was a girl! Black hair, right? Sh-She came by a few weeks ago—"

_"A God, huh? No thanks. I don't have time to get involved in complicated things."_

"What was her name?" Edward demanded.

"I don't know, she never gave us one!"

_"I wonder. If you people didn't have your Leto to believe in…"_

"She wouldn't see the point," Alphonse pointed out to his brother, who was practically beside himself.

"Yeah, you're right, Al, that doesn't matter! What matters is—"

"Did she look well?" Al asked Rose. "Was she hurt or anything? Did she say anything about us, at all?"

_"…what would you do?"_

"No, that stuff's not important either!" Edward waved his brother's questions away, his eyes glinting. "What really matters is—how tall was she?"

The central hall of the Church of Leto echoed with silence.

"Uh," Rose said, lost for words. "She was around my height…maybe five foot two?"

_…five foot two…_

Ed promptly crawled beneath the prayer bench and collapsed there. _She's taller than me…taller than me… than me…me…_

"I'm sorry, please ignore him," Alphonse said to a gawking Rose. "Anyway, that girl. Did she look well?"

Rose tore her eyes away from Edward. "Um, yes! She was very well. She didn't say anything about you two, though."

"Oh. I see." Alphonse's armor-voice sounded disappointed.

"But I guess I should have known you three knew each other," Rose admitted. "That blasphemy your brother was spouting—she said almost the exact same things."

_"Do you believe because you want to believe, or because you don't want not to believe?"_

Al sighed. "That does make sense. She and Big Brother both speak their minds without any regard for other people." Now he sounded wistful. "I guess that's why they never really got along."

"Are you sure she didn't say anything about us?" Edward popped back up. "Absolutely sure?"

Rose took another step back, racking her brain again. "Um, maybe—"

_"Oh. If you ever come across two really weird people, leave them a message for me, will you?"_

"—maybe there was something. She didn't say it was for you two, though…" She trailed off as Edward leaned forward eagerly.

"What was it?"

"Um, it was—"

**_"Tell them, 'see you soon.'"_**

In the central hall of the Church of Leto stood an altar and, behind it, a marble carving of Leto. Below that, some faithful stonemason had etched an impromptu inscription: "believe, and you shall receive."

And below the inscription was a series of marks that, if assumed to be letters, read—

**_ n' t f l y_**

_too close to the sun," she managed to advise the Elric brothers, __before Edward slammed the door in her face._

* * *

The train whistle was a lonely sound against the autumn sky, bare except for the wisps and plumes of coal-black smoke.

"…uh. Hey, 'scuse me?"

Kayal turned around, almost cutting off the girl's head with his slab of wood in the process. "Woah! Sorry 'bout that. Were you talking to me?"

"Uh, sorta, yeah." The girl scratched the back of her neck. "I was wondering—huh?"

He leaned in with narrowed eyes. "Wait a minute, I haven't seen you around before. You a traveler? A tourist? Where'd you come from? Do you have food? A place to stay? _Money?_" He took a step forward with every question; she took a step back.

"Er—"

"Hey Dad, we've got a customer!" he hollered excitedly.

"Uh, hey, wait a min—"

"What was that, Kayal?" a miner standing at the top of the tracks hollered back.

"Customer! A piggy bank!"

The man bent his head and pulled off his helmet, revealing a friendly face smeared with coal dust and a teeth-baring grin.

"A customer, huh? In that case, welcome to Youswell!"

The girl blinked rapidly. Now that Kayal took a good look, she was obviously a foreigner: her black hair stood out like a sore thumb in the mainly blonde Amestrian crowd, and her clothes were worn with dust and travel, and there was something about her sharp eyes and slim limbs that was distinctly Eastern.

"Hey, hey, what's your name?"

"Ming."

They waited, but nothing followed. So Kayal prompted, "Ming...?"

And she smiled. Awkwardly, tentatively, but it was still a smile.

"Just Ming."

* * *

**Edited 8.10.13**


	5. IV: coward

**.S. I. N. H. E. A. R. T.**

**IV.**

_**coward**_

**"To see the right and not to do it is cowardice." – Confucius**

**"Courage is often lack of insight, whereas cowardice in many cases is based on good information." – Peter Ustinov**

* * *

The Xingese autumn was beautiful, with its brilliant reds and golds, its crisp blue skies, its flocks of birds so thick they threatened to swallow the world. In his childhood, Ling had been force-fed many, many poems about its beauty, and he had gotten thoroughly sick of poetry in the process, but he still found the fall in his empire lovely.

That's right. This empire was _his._ He didn't have it yet, but he felt it in his bones: Xing _belonged_ to him, the way a father belonged to a son, or a sea belonged to a river.

"Young master, are you sure you don't want me to accompany you?"

Ling slapped a grin onto his face. "I'll be fine, Lanfan," he said. Aw, but her worried expression was adorable. He felt his grin grow wider. "You should be with your own clan tonight. Look," he added, "if I'm not back by the time the moon rises, you can come look for me, okay?"

Lanfan bit her lip (_so cute_, thought Ling gleefully), but gave in after a bit more coaxing.

He walked past the nameless ancestors and their nameless trees, as dry and withered as those they honored; past cold stone tablets and the incense that waxed and waned with the wind. The cold sky was emblazoned with a hundred different hues of orange that melted into indigo: the sun, like a phoenix from folklore, was orchestrating its death with a final display of brilliance.

When he was little, the way had always seemed so much longer, so much heavier, so much more of a burden. But he was older now, his strides longer, his step surer, his life more purposeful.

"Mother. Minmin. How've you been?"

That nickname. He'd never managed to grow out of it. To the rest of the world she had changed, from Lady Ming to princess of the Yao clan to memory, but to him she would always be Minmin. And if he closed his eyes, he could imagine her reply, as clear as if she were sitting beside him:

_I'm under a ten-ton pile of dirt. How do you _think_ I've been?_

His lips quirked. "Don't be like that, Minmin. I came all the way out here to see you."

A breeze flew past and the treetops rustled, dry and warm like her voice. _…what are you doing out here anyway?_

"It's the Moon Festival, remember? Time for family." He fumbled for a bit before pulling out a small package from his robe. "Here. Look, I brought these for you."

Mooncakes. The last time they had eaten mooncakes together, Ling had stuffed himself with more than his share, and Ming had let him. At the time, he had been happy. Now, it made him sad—just another one of the little sacrifices she had made, just for him, that he had never noticed.

In his mind, she was touched but too prideful to show it. _Stupid! Did you sneak food from the kitchen again? What did I tell you about that?_ And she would go on without letting him answer: _The Moon Festival is for _living _family. What about the lanterns? The dragon dances? You always loved those._

"But they're not the same without you, Minmin," he said, a child again, and she fell silent.

He sat like that for a while, alone but not really alone, staring at the characters engraved on her tombstone: _Ming, princess of the Yao clan, beloved and immortalized._

The Xingese didn't believe in heaven. Oh, they had their Heavenly Emperor, the ancestor of the Xingese emperor on Earth; they had their gods and goddesses, their heroes who rose to the moon. But the only option an ordinary human had after death was to remain on Earth, taking care of their relatives and descendants, protecting them.

Ling didn't know what to believe. Perhaps it was true. But sometimes—maybe a little blasphemously—he hoped not.

Because as much as the thought that Ming might be beside him was comforting, the idea of Ming wandering the Earth forever, longing to speak to him but unable to touch him, was unbearably sad.

Suddenly, Ling was aware of another human approaching the gravesite. He frowned: this was a restricted area for the royal members of the Yao clan _only._ Only the emperor was allowed here without permission, and he was, by extension, a member of all the clans in Xing. Who on Earth—?

"Are you Prince Ling of the Yao clan?"

The voice was raspy. Tired. Hopeful.

"I am," Ling answered readily, without turning around. "Who are you?"

"An assassin." The answer was so casual that Ling almost missed it—but when he did catch it, he stiffened. The owner of the voice laughed with harsh laughter. "Oh, you can relax. I am not an assassin for _you_, prince."

"Thank you for that," Ling said lightly. "I'll sleep a little sounder tonight, knowing that you won't be coming after me. To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?"

"The one whose grave lies before you."

Before he even realized it, Ling had grabbed hold of the speaker and twisted his arm behind his back, with his neck in the crook of Ling's arm.

"Who are you and what do you know about my sister?" he snarled, un-Ling-like, all traces of his normal grin gone. "There's no use trying to escape. Depending on your answer, I'll—"

There it was again: that harsh laughter. Ling had thought that it reminded him of something earlier, but he had failed to pinpoint it, and now he suddenly knew: a crow.

"Look at your prisoner again, young prince. Do you think, even if you had not pinned me down, I would be able to escape?"

Confused, Ling obeyed—and realized with shock that he was staring at an old man.

He wasn't really that old. He couldn't have been that much older than Fu, and Ling knew firsthand that Fu was still as strong and spritely as ever, with the strength of a man one-third his age. But this so-called "assassin," he _looked_ old. It wasn't his crow's feet, his wrinkles, his white hair. It was the way his entire body just seemed to scream weariness, his shriveled form, and—Ling couldn't help flinching back in horror—his foot.

The old man's leg was mangled. Ling had seen enough cripples in his life to know it wasn't natural. No, not even mangled—it had been crushed, twisted, almost destroyed. It may as well have been destroyed. Perhaps it should have been, to save the pain this old man must have suffered for so many years.

"Who did this to you?" Ling whispered, unable to help himself. He still didn't release his prisoner, because he knew that if he did, the old man would topple to the ground.

The old man laughed again. "Your clan."

Now Ling flinched and almost did let go. _Lieslieslieslieslies—_"That wasn't a good lie, grandfather," he said, more respectfully, now that he was sure his "assassin" was no threat. "Try again."

"A bad lie, eh?" The old man shifted, and Ling loosened his grip so that he could face his captor. "Then tell me this, young prince." Ling flinched again when the old man's breath hit his face: it stunk. "What if I said that the young princess was still alive? And—" He managed to shake his head when Ling immediately opened his mouth to protest. "—let us pretend, for the moment, that it was not a lie."

Ling was momentarily lost for speech. When he finally did speak, his voice was shaky. "Then I would ask you how."

The old man's expression was suddenly and inexplicitly sad.

_The Xingese didn't believe in heaven._

…_**but the grave has no body.**_

* * *

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**East Amestris**

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* * *

Youswell was a tired town. You could see it everywhere: in the near-empty streets, in the worn edges and faded signs and peeling paint, in the coal dust that settled over everything, in the coal miners' eyes as they laughed away their weary days over beer.

The inn—or store, for it served as both—smelled like alcohol and cigarettes, like sweat and labor. Ming swiped one finger on the tabletop and grimaced when it came away black.

"Four nights and eight meals?" the innkeepers wife inquired with a smile.

"Um." Ming's head shot back up, and she took on the look of a deer caught in the headlights. "Yeah. How, how much?"

"400,000 sens."

Which was basically all of Ming's savings. She grimaced again. Well, she could always force the Elrics to pay her tab for her when they finally got here—Edward's monthly paycheck was probably a ridiculous amount of money for a teenager anyway…

"Hey, Ming! Your dinner!" It was the boy, what's-his-face? Kayal, right? Yeah, Kayal. Blond-haired and blue-eyed, a friendly smile and the beginnings of a miner's physique, a country boy with a kind heart and a rebellious spirit.

"Oh, yeah." She stared down at the wilting lettuce, the watery-looking soup, the stale bread. It didn't look particularly appetizing, but she'd seen worse. Beggars couldn't be choosers. "Thanks."

"No problem. We always got food for a payin' customer." There was a terrible screech as he pulled over a nearby chair to sit down across from her. "So what're you doin' all the way out here anyway? You on your way East?"

She bit into the bread and nearly broke a tooth. "No."

"Visitin' family?"

"No." She wondered if she might have telepathy. There had been several scientific investigations into psychics, and people who traveled to other worlds always ended up with special powers, didn't they? She tried to send him a telepathic message: _Please leave me alone_.

Clearly, it didn't work. "Yeah, I guess not, else you'd be stayin' with them. Here to tour the mines then?"

There she paused. "Can you do that?"

His face lit up at finally getting more than a monosyllabic response from her. "Sure! 'Course, not many people do it, cuz we don't get that many visitors in the first place, and they're mostly military—"

"Military?"

"Uh-huh." There was an awkward pause in which Kayal scowled at an unseen enemy. "Oh, you don' know, do you? This place is the _private property_ of _First Lieutenant_ Yoki," he said, sing-song, with contempt, probably imitating some snobby official.

"Private property," she repeated. "He owns this store?"

Kayal snorted. "And the rest of the town. He's a real jerk, too. Used to be some nobody, and then he bribed his way to a position in the army. An' after that—"

"He got greedy and decided to buy everything up," she finished.

Kayal nodded, his face tight with anger, and Ming sipped her coffee.

It was ingenious, really, she thought. Youswell was almost cut off from the rest of Amestris, so no one would hear about Yoki's corruption. Buying up the entire town meant that he controlled the telegraph lines, the post office, and any other way of communicating with the outside world. And gossip was easy to keep track of in a little country town, so Yoki would know instantly if anything—or anyone—were to threaten his "rule." He could slowly drain this town dry, obtain enough money to bribe more people, get himself a higher position somewhere, and then hightail it out of here forever.., with the rest of Amestris none the wiser.

Yoki was clever, Ming would give him that much. It was too bad that he had chosen to apply his intelligence to a crooked trade rather than an honest one.

"So, whatchu say you were here for?" said Kayal, breaking the silence that had settled over them both.

Ming shrugged, taking another sip of coffee. "Who knows."

She would enjoy watching Yoki's undoing.

* * *

_Darkness. Complete and utter darkness._

_No air, a little air like the barred window given to the dying prisoner, no air, no air. Pain throbbing throbbing throbbing. Enclosed, trapped, like an animal, like a corpse, buried beneath the earth, never to be seen, no one to be seen by._

_A little boy with hollowed eyes dry of tears and dry of hope. She watches with horror as he reaches towards her, his flesh melting from his bones, his bones melting from the air, his gaze searing itself into her mind—_

"You left me, Minmin," _whimpers the brother she failed to protect, and then he bleeds away before her very eyes._

Ming awoke gasping and panting, eyes wide and limbs flailing, with the cold night air closing around her throat. As her eyes adjusted she realized that she was in Halling's inn, fighting against her blankets.

_I'm going crazy_, was her first thought, even as she felt around the top of the bedside dresser. Her fingers grasped what they found there with a shaky desperation. Without turning to look, she unfastened the blue cap and downed two pills: they were bitter and chased away the aftertaste of her dreams.

_I'm seriously going crazy._

She lay there, taking deep, shuddering breaths, waiting for the medication to do its job.

"_You left me, Minmin,"_Ling had said, not as a ghost but as something more real, more haunting.

Her eyes slid shut. "You don't have to keep reminding me, thanks," she said to the darkness awaiting her.

* * *

On the third day, Ming spent about half an hour finding her way to Yoki's "house" and back.

Whispers followed wherever she went, a trail of misleading rumors: she was an illegitimate relation to so-and-so and was searching for her family; she was an army officer, here to investigate Yoki's wrongdoings; she was Yoki's _daughter__—_

"You know, maybe the reason Yoki always knows when you guys complain about him is because you're so damn loud about it," she snapped at two particularly annoying women.

Yoki's house wasn't that hard to find. For one thing, it was six stories tall and painted a color that made her want to puke. For another, it was flagged by several military cars (which Ming found ironic because none of Youswell could even afford cars). For all that Yoki complained about the town, he sure made himself comfortable.

"Hey! You!" She whipped around and found two soldiers marching towards her, hands on their swords and glares on their faces. "This is private property. Get a move on! No loitering!"

They reminded Ming of bulldogs. Really, really ugly, stupid, greedy bulldogs.

She told them so.

It probably wasn't a smart move. She ducked quickly to avoid getting her head cut off and hightailed it back to the inn.

"It's nice to go out and get some fresh air once in a while, isn't it, dear?" said Mrs. Halling blissfully as she wiped the dirty glass. "I was getting a little worried about you, cooped up in your room for all that time. And this inn isn't the best of—oh, look, Kayal and the others are back!" She turned, at once becoming a mother who had eyes only for her son. "Kayal, dear, welcome home! Did you have a good day?"

"Ma, we got customers!" was the ecstatic reply. "A piggy bank!"

"I TOLD YOU TO STOP CALLING US THAT!" was the immediate retort.

Ming nearly fell out of her chair. As it was, she gripped the counter for support, feeling suddenly as if there were too little oxygen in the room, her circulatory system going haywire and her head pounding.

…_ah. Ah. _Her mind groped for words, and finally settled with, _holy shit._

"Oh, do we! That's wonderful!" Mrs. Halling sounded as if she were beaming. "Please, make yourselves at home! How long will you be staying?"

"Er, not too long," and Ming's heart dropped to her feet. "Maybe just for tonight? Right, Big Brother?"

"Yeah, I guess."

"So one night and two meals?"

The conversation drifted to prices, and Ming had the inexplicable urge to run as far and as fast as she could. So she stood up, her heart still beating erratically, irrationally, and made her way across the room and out into the night.

Inside, Edward Elric suddenly gave a start. Alphonse Elric glanced at him. "What's wrong, big brother?"

Gold eyes trailed to the door and back again. "…nothing, Al. Just thought I saw—" Edward blinked rapidly, then shook his head. "Nothing. Don't worry about it."

If he had had a face, Al would have frowned. As it was, he simply nodded. "Okay, brother."

On the other side, Ming took a deep breath and buried her head in her arms. Like that desert bird from her old world—what was it called? She felt that prickling, familiar fear that came whenever she failed to remember something, and then the relief that flooded into her as she recalled the name. An ostrich. That was it. The bird that buried its head in the sand when it saw danger, because it believed that if it couldn't see its enemies, then its enemies couldn't see it either.

There was another name for that.

_I'm such a coward_. She laughed bitterly, running her fingers through her hair.

When she was little—now _that_ felt like it had been a million years ago, if nothing else—she had always wished to travel to the stars. She'd always dreamed of flying up one night and plucking a star out of the sky, like some kind of fruit or diamond. Then she discovered that space was a vacuum and astronauts needed special suits and years of training to travel through it. She learned that the stars were no more than gigantic balls of gas millions of light-years away, and that by the time she reached one, she would be a corpse.

And now, in this world, even that was impossible.

Years of planning, calculating dates and times, and she had planned this, too. She knew when they would be there; she had even left them a message, cheekily, but perhaps it had been a tripwire for her, so that she wouldn't be able to make excuses and run away. But she wanted to.

_How can I face them? What can I tell them? How do I explain _anything, _when I don't understand a thing myself?_

Meanwhile, the voices in the inn grew steadily louder, and finally culminated in a

"_**GET OUT!"**_

Ming jumped.

The door slammed open with a loud bang, and Edward and Alphonse Elric were literally kicked out on their butts.

"What the hell?!" Edward shouted, his face turning red in fury. "We're paying customers!"

"We don't have any beds for dogs of the military!" Halling shouted back, as pissed as Ming had ever seen him, with what looked like all of Youswell's coal miners at his back. Edward shrank slightly. "Go away! Shoo!"

That made something snap. "I'M NOT A DOG, DAMMIT!"

"Um, I'm just a normal civilian." Alphonse raised a timid hand. "I'm not a state anything."

Halling's attitude took a 180 degree turn. "Oh, really? Come right in!"

"AL, YOU TRAITOR!"

It was almost too fast for Ming to follow. But basically, the end result was that Edward was dumped outside, and Ming was left on the other end of the porch, trying very hard to pretend like she didn't exist. _Invisibility_, she thought frantically, unscientifically. _If I could somehow change my molecules so they didn't reflect light—_

"…hey, you."

She jumped. Edward had made his way next to her, his eyes narrowed in suspicion.

"I saw you before, in the inn," he said. "Didn't I?"

She swallowed. "Yeah."

"Who are you?" His eyes narrowed further. "You don't look Amestrian."

_**The worst kinds of cowards are the kinds who pretend to be strong.**_

She swallowed, her heart beating erratically. _A mouse's heart beats 400 to 500 times per minute_, she told herself, trying to calm down. _A hummingbird heart can beat up to 1360 times per minute._

She loved facts. Facts were simple, clear, and always true. They were dependable, they could always be counted on, and they made so much _sense_. Unlike people.

_If my heart beat that fast, would anyone be able to hear it?_

"It's Ming," she said quietly.

She could see his outline freeze in the lamplight that streamed from across the street.

"…Ming?" Edward Elric croaked, and she was caught off-guard by how _childish_ he sounded. He scrambled to his feet, eyes wide with shock. "No way—Ming?"

"It's me," she said. He seemed to struggle for a second.

"Prove it," he said at last. "If you're really Ming, then what was the message you left for us in Liore?"

"'But don't fly,'" she quoted immediately. "And 'see you soon.'"

Edward leaned against the wall. "Ming?" he repeated, again.

"It's me," she repeated, again.

She could feel him staring at her, trying to make out her features in the darkness, trying to find the Ming in his memories in the Ming sitting before him, trying to see if she'd changed. If they'd changed. If she had gained anything. If she had lost anything…

"Ming," he whispered again, hoarsely, and he stood up straight, and swayed a little. There was a moment of breathless hesitation, as if time had slowed, and thoughts and words were all silenced, and they simply stared at each other in the lamplight—

And then Edward Elric did something completely beyond her calculations.

He punched her.

Hard.

In the face.

_Well,_ said a snide voice in the back of her mind as she flew off the porch, _at least it wasn't his automail fist._

She skidded to a stop in the middle of the street, and for a moment she stared up at him, stunned, reaching up to palm her throbbing face. She must have looked like a deer caught in the headlights as she stuttered, "What—why—"

Edward was panting, the blood rushing to his cheeks, a vein throbbing in his temple, as he relaxed and clenched his fists, the very image of a furious bull. "You—freaking—JERK!"

_That_ was not the reaction she had expected. "Ex—excuse—wait, _what?_"

He snarled. In any other situation she would've found it funny. "Don't make me laugh…"

_S_he watched his nostrils flare with fascinated terror. "I—wait—" she scrambled to get to her knees. "Edward, just give me time to explain, I—"

"I can't handle this," he said, gritting his teeth. "Not right now. Just—"

He exhaled, inhaled, trying to calm himself down. His eyes were harsh and glaring, like sunlight after years of darkness.

And then he turned around, and left. An ultimatum.

* * *

"Out of the way, out of the way! Lieutenant Yoki's here! Out of the way!"

"It seems that this place isn't paying its taxes. This doesn't just apply to you, by the way. I could say the same of everyone in this filthy town."

"Yet it appears that you still have enough money to enjoy alcohol? It can't be helped; I suppose I will have to lower your income a little. There are no objections to that, I expect?"

Suddenly, there was murmuring. An indignant yell, and then the sound of a scuffle

"Kayal!" came Halling's voice, desperate and furious, and then Yoki: **"Don't give him any mercy just because he's a child—"** the sound of a sword being drawn—"_This is a warning_—"

* * *

Her eyes snapped open to fire.

_What?!_

She fought to sit up, and coughed and cursed when her mouth filled with smoke. "What the hell?!"

_Oh, no—why didn't I wake up?_

She took in the room, took in the flames eating away at the bedpost, the books consumed in flames (_Yoki's gonna pay for that,_ she thought automatically), and her mind grasping for words.

"Why didn't I—" She spotted the little white bottle sitting on the drawer, and cursed again. "Great. Really great. I knew those things were going to bite me in the ass." She coughed; the feeling of smoke filling her lungs was not a very pleasant one.

_This sucks. Well, I guess it's do-or-die at this point… _After taking a moment to assess her options, she covered her face with her arms, took a flying leap from the bed, and crashed through the window.

(_The acceleration of an object in ideal free fall is 9.8 seconds per meter,_ she thought automatically.)

Her jacket flew away from her face and she saw the ground coming up fast, felt her body leave behind her stomach, tasted the smoke in her mouth—

And then she tumbled to the ground, did a few somersaults, heard something crack (_that better not have been my neck_), came to a stop.

"Ow," she said. "Fuck." She groped around for her jacket and felt the rough earth beneath her fingers. She was alive. Good; she wouldn't have accepted anything else. That was the last time she made such a stupid error.

Someone else said, "Hey, are you okay?"

She opened her eyes again: she had landed at Edward Elric's feet.

"Did you break anything?" he bent down, looking bewildered, and she automatically looked past him to find that gigantic suit of armor with eyes glowing in the darkness. "Hey—hey, are you…"

Suddenly, he trailed off and fell silent, and she knew he was getting a better look at her in the firelight, recognizing her, and she saw anger battling worry on his face.

"Ming?"

That voice nearly broke her heart. He was towering, he was huge. A voice like that couldn't belong to something like that big shield of steel, but there it was, his voice: small and childish and desperate and hopeful and sweet.

"Ming? Is that…is that you?"

Oh. Edward hadn't told his brother about finding her. Figured. She winced in pain, but tried to fake her smile. "Hey, Alphonse."

They made quite a pair: a suit of armor protected from everything and yet barely clinging to life, and a boy with golden hair and golden eyes too old for the rest of him. It was sad.

_They_ were sad.

"Ming? Ming, answer us, damn it!" Ed was shaking her now, and then they both heard a crack. She winced; he froze. "…was that your arm?"

She craned her neck and saw the blood leaking onto the ground, the odd angle of the bone. "Oh. Yeah. Guess it was." She tasted a metallic tang, and realized that she still hadn't been able to escape the glass.

"Al, go find a doctor!" Alphonse dashed off, and his brother bent down again. "Hey, hey, Ming? Don't close your eyes! Stay with me here!"

She laughed with only the slightest hysteria. "I'm not going anywhere." The pain from her arm was starting to set in, and it made tears prick her eyes, but she bit the inside of her cheek to keep from crying out.

Edward sat on the ground heavily, still looking disbelieving. His eyes flashed up to Halling's inn, which she knew must be little more than charred ash by now, and back. "Did you—you _jumped out of a burning building?_"

Her head was throbbing, her world was spinning. "That about—" she gasped as pain shot up and down her arm; Al had found a doctor, it seemed. "—about sums it up, yeah."

Ed laughed. It sounded just as hysterical as she felt. "You jumped out of a—do you want to die?!"

"Since when did you care?!" she snapped unkindly. He flinched. She winced. "Crap." Talking too much, too fast was killing her nose. She kind of wanted to writhe in agony, but seeing as her arm was broken, she doubted that was a good idea.

There was hurt and anger on Ed's face as he stood up, and she knew she was being unfair: after all, it had been her fault in the first place. She had run away because she didn't want to face what she had allowed to happen. She hadn't contacted them because she didn't want to face what she had left behind. She had been forced to come face to face with them, only to be confronted with what she had done to them, and what she had done to herself.

Coward.

"Fuck my life," she groaned, watching the blood and tears mix and pool on the ground. It was not a pretty sight, and she was starting to feel dizzy from blood loss and pain. "This is just not my day."

"What—wait a minute! Ming, don't! You can't fall asleep! Stay awake! Hey, Ming!"

"Big Brother, I found the doctor! Where's Ming?!"

Ed sounded panicked. "I, I don't know what to do, she's losing—"

* * *

When she woke again, her arm was in a cast and she was in a bed softer than anything that should have been in Halling's inn.

"I need," she said aloud, staring up at the ceiling (which was a fascinating shade of fuchsia), "to stop passing out. It's very inconvenient." Her voice was hoarse and her throat was dry.

She wondered if talking to herself was a mark of insanity, or just loneliness.

"And breaking my arm was a serious miscalculation. Maybe I should've tried landing on my feet…but then I would've broken both my legs? I guess this is the better option?"

"Wouldn't it be better if you didn't break anything at all?" ventured a timid voice that echoed in walls of metal.

Ming turned her head and made an attempt at a smile. "Alphonse. Hi. How long've I been out?"

"Um," said Alphonse Elric, "one day. I mean, after the fire, you slept through the night up till now." He nodded to the window, where she could see the glare of the sunset. "It's evening."

She did some quick calculations. Evening—that meant Edward was currently bribing Lieutenant Yoki with fool's gold. "Shouldn't you be with your brother?"

"He told me to wait here for you to wake up," Al said, and in his armor-voice was something like a sigh. "I'm not really sure what he's up to and I'm not sure if I want to know."

"Why?"

If he had been human, perhaps he would have blinked. "Um, well, I mean, if he's doing something bad, then—"

"Why did he tell you to stay?" she kept her eyes on the ceiling. "I thought he hated my guts."

There was a long silence, during which Alphonse regarded her. When he finally spoke, it was with a hint of sadness: "Brother doesn't hate you, Ming."

Hearing her name being spoken by that child-voice straight out of her memories, as if the speaker had been frozen in time, gave her a kind of quiet shock.

"Then…?"

Al paused. "I shouldn't say," he said at last, apologetically. "That's up to Brother. But…" he paused again. "I don't hate you, and Brother doesn't either."

Another bout of silence.

"…he told me he couldn't handle it. Couldn't handle me."

Al had to hide his smile. She sounded apathetic, her expression was blank but it had bothered her, if only a little. "You know he didn't mean it. Brother loses his temper easily, that's all."

There was no answer. Alphonse sighed, and stood up with a creaking of metal.

"It would be nice if you could figure it out soon, though," he murmured.

He knew that Ming was not watching him as he left. He wondered, briefly, if this was how she had felt that day, long ago.

* * *

Night was falling. That meant, then, that Edward was probably making the exchange with Halling. She couldn't ask him to pay for her stay now, she suddenly realized. And in the fire…she glanced over at the chair Al had been sitting in. It was where her jacket hung, tattered and slightly charred, the last of her worldly possessions.

She'd forgotten to ask where she was. Al had run for a doctor, hadn't he? If she was at the doctor's—

The door slammed open, and in stepped the last person she wanted to see.

"_You_," the former First Lieutenant Yoki said furiously, "you brat and your stupid friends—you've ruined everything!"

She raised an eyebrow at that. "What would you have done if I was still unconscious?"

She had never seen him before. She had to admit that he didn't cut a very impressive figure, even in real life. He looked every inch the desperate, ruined coward. Beads of sweat rolled down his sallow face; his skin was ashen, his eyes darting left and right, a vein twitching in his lower jaw.

She watched him with the fascination of a scientist watching a lab rat trying to escape a maze. _Should I be worried? _she wondered. _No. Yoki's a lot of things, but he's not crazy. He's no murderer. Killing someone takes a certain bravery, too._

He was shaking now, slumping to the ground as his last nerve deserted him. Something clattered to the ground, but he took no notice.

"What should I do?" he muttered, half-petrified, half-disbelieving. "My career, my position! My life!"

He was whining and it annoyed her. Actually, everything about him annoyed her—from his balding head to his weak little mustache to his uniform.

She swung out of bed with some difficulty (the cast was heavier than she'd expected) and stood, vaguely noticing that someone had changed her into a hospital-style gown. Her jacket went over her shoulders. It still smelled of ashes. Yoki was still slumped on the ground with his head in his hands.

Lying next to him was a gun.

She bent down, picked it up with her good arm, weighed it in her hand as she would an apple: loaded.

Had Yoki been planning to kill her, or himself?

"I'll take this as payment for my broken arm, thanks," she told him.

He didn't answer.

* * *

There was a light glowing in the windows of Halling's inn that hadn't been there before, a light not made of sodium gas, but of hope and long-awaited freedom. From afar she could hear laughter and the sloshing of alcohol as the miners drank with a side dish of cheer.

She stood awkwardly in the doorway, watching a miner with sunglasses (at night?) challenged Halling to a drinking contest, as Mrs. Halling rushed here and there with platefuls of hurriedly-made stew, as Ed stuffed his face and Al watched him with poorly concealed exasperation.

Walking in felt like intruding.

"Oh, Ming, dear!" Mrs. Halling spotted her from across the room. "Come on in! Are you alright? How are you feeling? Should you be in bed?"

That stopped all activity.

Ming tried to muster up a smile, but it was hard to do when Mrs. Halling had just ruined her plans of sneaking away quietly.

"Um. I'm fine, thanks."

"Ming!" Kayal rushed up to her, radiant in his freedom. "Ming, you wouldn't believe what happened! Ed bought—and Yoki—we're—we're—" His happiness rendered him incoherent, and he settled for simply beaming at her, as if a big enough smile could somehow transfer his joy.

"That's, er, great," she nodded absent-mindedly. "Um, sorry, Mrs. Halling? My things—"

She tried not to let her disappointment show when the older woman shook her head. "I'm sorry, dear," Mrs. Halling said, desolately. "Everything was lost in the fire."

"But Ed used alchemy to build up our inn again!" Kayal put in, still beaming. "Isn't it great?!"

So Ming wasn't the only one bad at reading social cues. "Yeah. Yeah, it looks nice." What had she lost? 10,250 _senz_, her suitcase, three books, her pen knife—she did a bit of mental math and winced. The total value of her belongings had amounted to 40,394 _senz_.

And now, she had nothing.

That…couldn't be good. Did she have some loose change in her jacket pocket, at least? She dug around: nothing.

Completely and utterly broke.

She supposed she could live as a hobo for now. It wasn't as if she had never been in this kind of situation before.

"Thanks for letting me stay," she said to Mrs. Halling. "I hope things go well for your inn—"

The woman frowned. "What on earth are you saying? You can't be thinking of leaving now, can you? It's the middle of the night, it can't possibly be safe! And with your arm! You can stay the night here, at least—"

"I really do need to get going," especially if she was planning on getting anywhere else on foot anytime soon, "so really, thanks, but—"

"Hey."

Ming and Mrs. Halling both turned; Edward stood before them, looking unsure.

"I…we need to talk," he muttered, refusing to look Ming in the eye. "Outside."

"…oh," Ming said, dumbly. "Talk. Um, right. Sounds good."

Mrs. Halling looked back and forth between them for a bit before her face lit up—Ming knew, for sure, that she was getting the wrong idea. "Oh, my, it's nice to be young, isn't it? I'm terribly sorry, dear—I'll leave you two alone." The grown woman giggled like a school girl and went off to tend to the miners.

Well. That had made things a little more awkward.

"Come on," Ed said at last, before heading out the door. Ming followed, dodging two drunk miners along the way.

Inside, Alphonse looked up. _Brother—? _Spotting the end of Ming's black ponytail, he stood up and rushed after them.

Once outside, they stood there facing each other. Edward still refused to look at her; he seemed fascinated by the pieces of ash lying near his feet. He had wanted to speak with her, but he wasn't saying anything?

She coughed. Her throat felt dry.

"I'm sorry."

He did look at her, now. She suddenly found it hard to speak, but pressed valiantly on.

"I…apologize, for any grievances I caused you," she said, and she meant it. "You're angry at me and I understand that. If there's anything I can do to make things better between us, I'll do it—"

"Are you joking?"

She wasn't sure she'd heard right. "Huh?"

In the dim lamplight, his face was hidden in shadow. "You're joking, right?"

"Er—" Had she sounded like she was joking? She hadn't meant to. "I'm serio—"

"Don't fuck with me." His head jerked up and he was glaring at her as vehemently, no, _more_ vehemently than before.

She took a step back. "I—"

"You think _apologizing_ to me will do anything?!" He took a step forward. "You think you can waltz back here with a hi, how's it going, great, I'm sorry for fucking with you, and things'll just work out?!"

"I'm—"

"No, shut up," he snapped. For a moment he seemed to struggle with himself, and she was almost afraid that he would punch her again, but instead he burst out: "You piss me off! What the hell was with that message in Liore, anyway? What, did you think it would sound cool or something?! 'Cause it didn't, it was _lame!_"

Ouch. That jab hurt less than the others, but it still hurt.

"Do you _know_ how long we looked for you after you left?! How long Master looked for you?! How Winry thought it was something she said, how it might be her fault? Would it have _killed_ you to make a phone call?! Send a letter?! A fucking postcard?!"

She winced.

"Do you _know_ how _worried_ Master's been?! I can't believe you didn't call her, not even once! What the hell is _wrong _with you?! And Sig and Mason and Winry and even Aunty Pinako!"

_Don't you know—_

"Do you know?! Do you even care?!"

_Hey, didn't you know?_

He grabbed hold of her jacket collar and pulled so that he was glaring right into her eyes.

"_**Do you know how worried we've been?!**_"

Edward was panting, breathless as he came down from his tirade, his face flushed with anger and frustration, his eyes sharp and very gold in the lamplight. He was waiting for his response, Ming realized dimly, but at the moment there was only one thing running through her brain.

Her mouth opened.

"…worried?"

He stared, caught off-guard. Whatever he had been expecting, it wasn't that. "What?"

"You were worried?" There was a ringing in her ears that sounded oddly like bells.

"…wait, _what?_"

"Oh," she said, because that was answer enough, and then she buried her face in one hand.

Weirdly enough, her ears were hot. And she felt stupider than she had felt in a long, long time.

"Sorry," she said. "I—just. Sorry." She tried to explain, but her words were muffled by her hand and didn't come out quite right. "I didn't realize—I mean, I didn't think you would be—_worried._ But it totally makes sense, when I think about it. Hindsight is twenty-twenty, so, but, I just didn't. Think about it, I mean. I mean—I was too busy worrying—well—"

She knew she was rambling and should probably shut up, but she couldn't stop herself, she felt so relieved. And embarrassed. And stupid.

"I—" He was gaping at her. "You—" He seemed lost for words. "What were you apologizing for, then?!"

When Edward was caught off-guard, he tended to rely on anger.

"I should've tried harder," she told him quietly, hand still covering her face. "It was my fault. I knew what you were planning. If I had, I don't know, gone to Resembool sooner, or told Izumi or even Mrs. Rockbell, or something, none of that would have happened!"

She removed her hand and saw that Edward was staring at her but she couldn't stop babbling; guilt and self-deprecation poured out of her. "I was stupid. I was _stupid!_ I should have stopped you. I don't know what I was thinking, just letting you guys leave like that. I don't know if I was thinking at all. None of it should've happened. This—" she gestured at Edward's arm and leg, at Alphonse's body "—_none _of it."

She covered her face with her hand again. She wasn't crying; she had stopped crying a long time ago, but there was still a familiar burning feeling in her throat.

"And it's all my fault. And then I ran away! After everything that happened, I left! Because I…"

_I told myself it wasn't too late, I could still fix things, if I left, but that wasn't entirely the truth. The truth was that I didn't want to face them, I didn't want to face my failure, again. I couldn't save them. I couldn't save any of them. _Images flashed in her mind: white hair, tanned faces, red eyes.

"I was scared," she croaked.

So scared that she hadn't been able to change anything, that she was useless, because if she was useless, then _why was she here?_ She had let people down; she had let _herself_ down.

"So I ran away. And I don't blame you two if you hate me, for that."

There was a long silence after she finished, and she didn't dare open her eyes; she didn't want to see Edward's expression. But then the hands that had fisted themselves in her jacket collar loosened, and she let herself peek.

"You…" He was staring at her, looking completely and utterly lost.

"We don't hate you, Ming!" Alphonse burst, his voice high and anxious.

"I know you don't, but you should!"

"No!" he shook his head vehemently. "Of course we shouldn't! That's silly, Ming! I can't believe you would blame yourself for—for what happened! To us! You did the best you could, we're the ones who didn't listen! What happened to us was our own fault. I know that and Brother knows it, too!"

Meanwhile, said brother was still staring at her with the face of a gaping goldfish.

"Edward?" she mumbled, a little scared. "Say something?"

"You're a total dumbass."

That hadn't been what she'd expected.

She lowered her hand.

"What?"

His voice was calm and quiet, and not at all angry, and didn't quite match the words that were coming out of his mouth.

"Do you even listen to yourself?" he said lowly. "You treat yourself like—like some kind of _martyr._ None of that would've happened? That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard. _We_ were the ones who researched the transmutation. _We_ gathered the materials, _we_ drew the circle, _we_ activated it."

"But I—"

"But nothing, Ming," Alphonse put in. "Brother and I—if anything, we should be apologizing to you. You tried to warn us, and we even got mad at you! It was unfair of us! And if we blamed you for that, that would be even more unfair!"

"And we're the ones who're going to fix it, too," Edward said, firm and full of confidence. "You can't think about 'what-if's, those will drive you crazy. And none of them matter, because I'll definitely get Al's body back."

"And your arm and leg, Brother."

His lips quirked a little. "Yeah." Turning back to Ming, he said, "So that's enough, got it? No more guilt."

"But—"

"You should come home," Alphonse said softly.

Ming stared at him, jaw hanging. "Home?"

They stared back. "Master? Sig? Mason? Dublith? The shop?" Edward prodded.

"They were worried about you too, Ming," Alphonse said. "Aunty said Master called the military and had you listed as a missing person and everything."

Ming blanched.

"I think she tried herself to search for you a couple of times, but she couldn't just leave the shop," he continued quietly. "I don't know what you've been doing, but you have to go back and show her you're alright. Okay?"

"I…I…" Her head spun. "But…"

"No buts," Edward said, not unkindly. He reached out and gripped her wrist with his flesh hand. "We finally found you after all this time. We're definitely not letting you get away, got it?"

"I can't," she whispered.

"Of course you can!" Alphonse said. "You came here to see us, didn't you?"

"But I wasn't-" _planning on letting you see _me. _I just-wanted to make sure you existed...to remind myself I wasn't crazy._

"Don't be stupid," Edward said. "It's not a question of _can_, it's a question of _will_."

She stared at the hand that gripped hers. It was gloved, but she could feel the heat in it, the power in its grip.

She still wanted to go on living as she had for years, running away, trying to fix her mistakes without turning around to really face them. The thought of facing them terrified her-scared her more badly than anything had scared her in a long time. The thought of sinking into that place she had been after the transmutation, four years ago, dark and cold and alone, gnawed at her dreams and tore her from the inside out.

But Edward and Alphonse didn't hate her and Izumi was worried; and, besides, she _had_ to get herself taken off the missing persons list. No wonder those military officers had looked at her so suspiciously that one time…

She took a deep breath.

"Okay."

* * *

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

While the Xingese had graves for the deceased, where their bodies were entombed, they also had personal shrines, displayed in their homes in memory of those who had been loved. Those shrines usually included sticks of incense burned each day, perhaps a memento or two, a painting or photograph. The Xingese, however, saw no need for a shrine to the living. Directing any actions usually used for the dead towards the living were, they believed, bad luck, as if implying that the living would soon be dead.

That day, Ling pulled a photograph—which only the Xingese of the highest status could take—out of its frame, and lit it with incense.

There was no longer a need for a shrine.

"So you were alive. Ming…"

* * *

**Edited 8.13.13**


	6. V: gamble

**S. I. N. H. E. A. R. T.**

**V.**

_**gamble**_

"**Genius does not herd with genius." – O.W. Holmes**

"**The difference between genius and stupidity is that genius has its limits." – Albert Einstein**

* * *

Ming had always liked menial tasks, though she didn't get the chance to do them very often. Small, repetitive things, where she simply let her body run on muscle memory and her mind go on completely different trains of thought; trivial things, with no strings or pressure attached. Like drawing alchemy circles over and over again, or repeating combat forms, or peeling apples.

Doing it with a broken arm was quite a challenge, but _slice_ went the knife, and another curl of peel fell loose.

"Um, Ming?" Alphonse whispered, sounding worried. "I think we're in trouble."

_Slice. _It bounced like a dirty ribbon.

"Hand that knife over, kid," said the man. He was muscular, burly, and ugly, with a heavy jaw and a huge nose. There were bags under his eyes, stubble on his chin, calluses on his hands: telltale signs of living wanted, on the run.

_Slice._

"Hey, kid, didn't you hear me?" He prodded her with the end of his gun this time; it was a worn-looking thing. How many times had he used it, she wondered, and did he regret any of them?

_Slice._

He prodded her again, more sharply. "You mentally retarded or somethin'? Act more like a hostage, dammit!"

Ming blinked and looked up at him, as if noticing him for the first time. Then she smiled placidly.

"Hey, Edward, he called you short."

And for years to come, passengers on that train would still swear that the girl calmly peeling her blood-red apple while a scene of unspeakable carnage went on behind her was the most terrifying thing they had ever seen.

* * *

The hijacked train: 04804 Limited Express from New Optain.

The perpetrators: "Blue Group," an organization of East Area radicals.

The victims: General Hakuro, his wife and two children, and forty-two other passengers.

The demands: the release of Blue Group's imprisoned leader.

The responsible party: East City Headquarters military personnel.

The predicted outcome: overtime in the office, headaches due to bad tea, and a bloody mess.

But…

"Fullmetal's on the passenger list? Sweet! Who wants to go to the bar with me tonight?"

"Hey, now, I thought we said we were going home, not going drinking."

"Aw, c'mon, man, live a little. Besides, didn't you just get dumped? Perfect time to pick up a new girl, if you know what I mean—"

"I did not get dumped!" 2nd Lieutenant Jean Havoc said defensively. "She just said she needed a little space, that's all!"

2nd Lieutenant Heymans Breda snorted. "Suuuuure she did."

"Um, sir," Sergeant Major Kain Fuery said, peering up at his superior from his seat, "shouldn't we worry about Edward and Alphonse? If they get captured—"

"Then I'll punish them both for ruining my reputation," Colonel Roy Mustang finished, with a smirk that had broken many hearts. "If Fullmetal gets captured by that ragtag group, well, let's just say he won't be seeing his watch for a while. Knowing him, though, we'll probably have to compensate East Amestrian Rail Line for damages…hmm?"

"What is it, sir?" 1st Lieutenant Riza Hawkeye glanced over from where she was looking through a stack of files.

A small frown creased Mustang's forehead. "…hmm."

Havoc and Breda stopped arguing and turned his way; Fuery twisted around.

Finally, the black-haired man looked up from the list of passengers. "There was a third party with the Elrics. Fullmetal paid for her ticket," he announced. "Her name was—"

* * *

"Ming?"

"Huh?"

"I'm going to kill you."

In response, Ming lobbed the now-peeled apple at Edward's head with her good arm. "Thank you for that vital piece of information."

He ducked, a scowl on his face, and the apple bounced off of one of the thugs who lay black and blue and unconscious behind him. "I won't kill you," he corrected himself. "I'll just beat you up a little like I did to these guys."

"I had no idea you had such violent tendencies."

"Um, Ming? Big Brother?" The two of them turned to look at Alphonse, who was raising a hand timidly. "What are we going to do about the hijackers?"

Edward immediately turned to Ming with a glare that said _take responsibility for once, you jackass_. She raised one hand. "I have a broken arm."

Al sighed heavily.

* * *

To say Colonel Roy Mustang was surprised to see a girl talking to the Elric brothers with a terrorist bound and gagged at her feet would be the understatement of the century. The surprise, however, was quickly smoothed over by calculation as the black-haired man strode over to his inferior (in rank, height, age and all other areas, he thought with a tinge of satisfaction).

"Hey there, Fullmetal." Ignoring the look of utter disgust on Ed's face, Roy turned to look over the girl. "Well, well, finally got yourself a girlfriend? Why didn't you call to let me know the good news?"

It was an empty jest, of course. Mustang knew fully well that the day Fullmetal got a girlfriend would be the day hell froze over. He also knew fully well that even if that day really came, the last thing Fullmetal would want to do would be let Mustang know. Still, watching Ed's expression change from disgust to embarrassment was mildly amusing.

"SHE'S _NOT_ MY GIRLFRIEND!"

"Because he didn't get a girlfriend."

They spoke at the same time, glanced quickly at each other, and looked away. Ed had a scowl on his face; the girl shifted awkwardly.

Mustang raised an eyebrow.

"I see. I'm terribly sorry for the mix-up, miss," he said, fixing a charming smile onto his face. "I'm Colonel Roy Mustang, the Flame Alchemist. And you are…?"

"Ming," said the girl, looking at Mustang the way a biologist might look at a particularly intriguing snail.

"Ming…"

"Just Ming."

The eyebrow went up again, higher this time. "I see." _Very_ interesting. He had already known her name, of course, but not bothering to give a last name…she was either paranoid, rebellious, or both. "I hope my subordinate hasn't bothered you too much on your trip."

Fullmetal sputtered indignantly—"Who the _hell _is your _subordinate_, you, you womanizing _prick_"—and was duly ignored. "Colonel," Lieutenant Hawkeye suddenly warned, before a scream of pain split the air, followed by a howl of rage:

"You _bastard!_"

Bald stood panting, the previously hidden blade in his automail arm dripping with blood, blind fury and murder written in his eyes. Behind him, the two soldiers charged with bringing him to his special holding cell in East City prison had collapsed from knife wounds.

Mustang thought he heard Fullmetal mutter something that sounded suspiciously like "scary," but disregarded it. The Blue Group had been particularly persistent in its efforts to harass the military; of course its top members wouldn't go down so easily. But Mustang knew that, despite their tenacity, it was a futile struggle. Fuhrer Bradley would never give in, either, even if they went as far as to involve Central command, and if they didn't, well, the military had quite a few loyal dogs.

"Colonel, allow me—"

"It's fine."

He allowed a nonchalant smirk to take over his features, held up his hand as if to straighten his collar, acted like Bald was beneath his notice. He heard a roar of rage as the man rushed him, like Mustang had known he would. He also heard the familiar click of Riza's gun—really, didn't the woman trust him after all these years?

He knew men of Bald's type. Angry, hot-headed, thirsting to be recognized. He wondered if Bald really and truly wanted a good future for Amestris, or if he'd simply joined Blue Group out of bloodthirst and risen through its ranks with his temper. He wondered briefly what Bald had seen to shape him this way, wondered if Bald had been on the battlefield as Mustang had, had heard the screams—

Well, no matter.

With a snap of his fingers, Mustang set the air aflame.

The ensuing blast, and Bald's cry, rocked the entire station. Out of the corner of his eye Mustang saw Fullmetal flinch back from the heat, saw Alphonse Elric step back with his brother, saw Hawkeye slip her gun back into its holster, saw Ming cock her head like an inquisitive sparrow as she watched the smoke ripple.

And the Colonel stood high, the glorious righteous superhero over the…well. To put it bluntly, the villain.

"I went easy on you," Mustang said to Bald as the prisoner gritted his teeth against the pain of second-degree burns. "The next time you resist, I'll turn you into cinders, got it?"

"You bastard…" Bald breathed again. He struggled to get back up and then choked when a soldier slammed his head back down. He really_ was_ a persistent little bugger; Mustang had to give him that much. "What the hell are you?!"

"Roy Mustang, rank Colonel," said the object of Bald's hatred. "The Flame Alchemist. Don't forget it." He snapped his fingers again out of reflex, and though it was with his ungloved hand this time, everyone around him flinched away. "You two, take him to his cell. He should be in no condition to resist now. Havoc, call an ambulance."

"Already done, sir." Havoc saluted him with a grin; Mustang knew the man enjoyed his shows of alchemy, no matter how much he said otherwise, because it gave him a chance to brag among his peers. Then he lowered his voice. "Sir…the girl?"

Ah. Right. _That_ piece of business.

"Excuse me, Miss Ming—"

"Just Ming."

"Just Ming it is, then," he nodded. She had drifted over to him as he spoke to Bald and was looking at his ignition glove now, her eyes bright with curiosity; he surreptitiously shook his sleeve so it fell over the transmutation circle. "Are you a friend of Fullmetal's?"

Ming paused, reflecting on this. "Er, I think I am," she said at last.

_She _thinks _she is?_ Mustang eyed Fullmetal; there was an unreadable expression on the boy's face.

"Good, then you won't mind coming with us to East City Headquarters," he said with satisfaction, as Havoc firmly clapped a hand on Ming's shoulder. "I'm afraid I have a few questions to ask you."

"What the hell?" Fullmetal immediately bristled. "Why do you need to—"

"I don't think it's your place to question my orders, Fullmetal," Mustang said drily. The boy bristled again. _Careful, Fullmetal_, Mustang thought grimly, _you're a dog of the military. Dogs are loyal, faithful, and do not go against their owners._

The soldiers not busy with moving the terrorists were now watching the two of them with interest. A battle between commanding officers (well, the Colonel was still Edward's superior, but Edward as a Major in the army was still _their_ superior) wasn't a regular occurrence, but when it happened, it was always prime entertainment; and when it happened, it almost always reflected badly on the ones involved. Mustang knew this, but Edward didn't—in many ways, Edward was still a child.

"I'm not going to torture her, you know," the Colonel added lightly. "I said I have a few questions and that's all I have."

"But Colonel," Alphonse began. "Ming hasn't—"

"Alphonse," said Hawkeye, and the boy fell silent after being rebuked by an adult.

Fullmetal was glancing at Ming now. Mustang caught a myriad of emotions on his face: confusion, suspicion, annoyance, concern. Strangely enough, the girl herself looked rather content.

"I'm okay with it," she said. "But, um, could you let go, Lieutenant Havoc? Please?" She prodded the hand Havoc had clamped down on her shoulder, but Havoc didn't budge.

"It's weird for me too, kid," the man chuckled. "Sorry, but orders are orders."

Fullmetal clenched his fists; his eyes darted at Ming's placid expression, Mustang's smirk, Alphonse's worried not-face (how a suit of armor could look worried, Mustang would never know). "…fine," he muttered, "but you better not do anything to her."

"What kind of person do you think I am?" Mustang said, turning around. Behind him, Edward snorted. "Come on, Fullmetal, there's a car waiting for us outside. If you have anything else to say, say it in my office." He smiled at Ming with a pretense of pleasantry. "After you."

The look on her face—the relaxed one that gave Mustang the uncomfortable feeling of being benignly scrutinized—did not change. Rather, she seemed to be eyeing him more intently now, as if trying to decide something. Then she nodded, like she was satisfied with what she'd found, and Havoc pushed her forward.

Suddenly, Mustang was jarred into thought:

_How did she know Havoc's name?_

* * *

Upon reaching East City Headquarters, the Elrics headed with Mustang to his office, while Havoc shepherded Ming to a separate room. "Sorry, kid," he said again. "Protocol, y'know. You'll see the Elrics again real soon," he added, and then walked out and locked the door.

The room they'd decided to place her in was bare except for a desk, two chairs, an empty bookshelf, and a potted plant that looked like it wasn't going to get any less dead anytime soon. It reminded her of a doctor's waiting room, minus the fish—she had never understood doctors and their obsession with fish.

They might as well have carved _Interrogation Room. Do Not Enter on Pain of Boredom_ on the front door.

At that moment, Mustang was probably telling Ed about Shou Tucker. About the man's successes with biological alchemy; about the one chimera, the one miracle he created, and the one sentence it spoke and never spoke again.

About the man who chose science over his humanity. The man whose name left a bad taste in her mouth.

She had counted thirty-nine cracks on the black tile ceiling by the time the door creaked open and the Flame Alchemist strode in with all his blue-gold-and-black glory. "Hello, Miss Ming. Sorry for keeping you waiting."

"Is it normal for a commanding officer to carry out interrogation?" she said blandly.

"What makes you think this is an interrogation?" He seated himself comfortably in the chair opposite hers; Riza Hawkeye shadowed him silently, closing and locking the door behind them.

After all these years, Ming mused, there was still a surreal quality about this scene and the man before her who seemed to have leapt straight from the pages of imagination. The hero of a war that should never have happened. Broad-shouldered and tired-eyed, beautiful power that came to life with a snap of his fingers…

A game takes two to play, so when Ming refused to take his bait and instead sat there with a faraway look, Roy Mustang settled back into his chair.

"Fullmetal tells me your last name is Curtis, and you ran away from home four years ago. Is that correct?"

She wondered just how much Edward had said about her. "…yeah."

"What were you doing those past years?" Mustang said.

Her fingers began drumming at her knee absentmindedly. "Travelling. Studying. Nothing much."

"Oh, really."

He obviously didn't believe her. Well, it wasn't exactly a lie; she _had_ been travelling and studying, just among other things.

"I'll be blunt, then," the colonel said, resting his chin on his hands. "You were the one who sent us that phone call from Liore three weeks ago?"

Her lips quirked. It wasn't a question and they both knew it.

"What do you know?"

His expression had lost its initial pleasantness and she was suddenly, abruptly aware of the tang of smoke in the air; of her heart picking up speed, like a rabbit fleeing before a dog. _Tha thump. tha thump. tha thump tha thump tha thumpthathumpthathump…_

"Miss Curtis, understand your position. I have full right to demand everything—"

"Is this room soundproof?"

He stopped and frowned at her intently. "What?"

She had played this scene over and over in her head for months now, like an actress going over her lines so she could finally get them right when she got onstage. When it was just her, this man, and yes, the woman behind him (she'd always kind of admired Hawkeye—it was hard not to admire someone so efficient with such badass aim). Years of planning, thought, memorization, bruises and bloody knuckles, broken bones, raving insanity, for the moment when she could finally lay a few of her cards out on the table.

Here it was.

"The walls," she said, keeping her voice low. "Are they soundproof?"

Hawkeye's hand twitched towards her holster; Mustang held up a hand. He was openly scrutinizing Ming now; she watched his eyes take in the cast, the hollow cheeks, the shadows on her face, the charred jacket. She wondered what she looked like to him. A refugee? A runaway?

A lunatic?

"They are," Mustang finally answered. "As soundproof as we can make them, that is."

Perspiration gathered on her palms as she unconsciously clenched her good hand. She took a deep breath and then, if she hadn't been an atheist, would probably have prayed that these people would believe her. As it was, she simply hoped.

"Mr. Mustang," she said. 'Mister,' not 'Colonel,' because if all went well, he would eventually turn his back on those who had given him his rank. "You just referred Edward to Shou Tucker, the Sewing Life Alchemist, didn't you?"

His poker face really was amazing. There wasn't even a hint of surprise or suspicion on his face; instead, it remained a cold, hard mask. "How do you know that?"

"The same way I know about your history with Miss Hawkeye—" which was to say, _you don't need to know and you don't need to ask_ "—Mr. Mustang, I'm not going to tell you anything. You can torture me, but all you're going to get is useless information."

Hawkeye had stepped forward now, and her hand was on her gun threateningly. "Colonel—"

"—so make a bet with me," Ming continued relentlessly.

Mustang raised an eyebrow. He didn't look it, but his curiosity was piqued. "A bet?"

"A bet," she repeated. And then she took another deep breath. "If Shou Tucker killed his wife two years ago by transmuting her into a chimera with human speech, and he's planning to do the same to his daughter by fusing her with his dog for the upcoming State Alchemist exam, then I win, and you'll listen to and believe everything I say from here on out. You won't press charges against me. You won't mention me to anyone, not even Central."

Now there was shock on Mustang's face, but it was quickly smoothed over. "…and if I win?"

"…anything." He would agree, wouldn't he? It was practically a win-win situation for him. If she won, he would get all the information he wanted out of her; if he won…he could still get all the information he wanted out of her.

All she wanted for her win was the guarantee of his belief…and safety. That was all. If she could prove her honesty to him with this small bet, then when she moved on to more outrageous things (_like the destruction of Amestris, for example)_ he wouldn't lock her up in an asylum, or—worse—send her to Central Command.

"Colonel," Hawkeye said again with a frown, looking back and forth between them. She was trying to find a loophole, some kind of trap, and so was Mustang; his eyebrows were furrowed in thought. Ming couldn't blame either of them.

"Believing everything you say based on information you could have obtained simply through research?" Mustang said at last, and her stomach dropped. "A hefty bet, isn't it?"

"If it's information I could've just figured out, then why doesn't the military know about it?" she challenged.

He changed tactics. "What's your motive? You don't gain anything from this. Either way you're giving up information, and I could still send you to Central whenever the mood hit me."

"Giving you information is useless if you don't believe me," she said. "You wouldn't send me to Central once I had your word." She was kind of doubtful about that one, actually, but even so, she was fairly certain that once he heard and believed what she had to say, he wouldn't even think about giving her away.

"You would trust a member of the military even though you're against us?"

"Not a member of the military," she said, "Roy Mustang."

That made him pause. She didn't have enough time to think about how he'd analyze what she'd just given him.

"…very well," he finally said, and she let out a breath she hadn't known she'd been holding. "Until our…bet…is completed, you'll remain in one of our holding cells here in East Headquarters." He held up a hand when she opened her mouth to protest. "Regardless of how this…bet goes, right now, you're a criminal with dangerous information. Central Command won't know you're here. I trust you won't try to escape."

She blinked at him; the possibility hadn't even occurred to her. "Er…I kind of have a broken arm. I don't think I could even if I tried. Oh," she suddenly remembered, "here."

Hawkeye pulled out her gun at the exact same time Ming pulled out hers.

"I thought you'd want this," Ming said calmly, even though a bullet was almost driven into her skull. She placed the gun she'd taken from Yoki on the table. "I don't know how to use it anyway. You should probably look into improving train station security, by the way, 'cuz they let me sneak this thing on board."

"Lieutenant, escort her to her cell," Mustang said coldly.

* * *

"What do you mean, she's in custody?!"

"Yeah, I don't get it either, but those were the colonel's orders."

"But why?! Ming hasn't done anything wrong!" Alphonse protested. Havoc said nothing; he simply took another slow drag from his cigarette.

Edward clenched his fists. _That damn colonel…what's going on?! What's he planning?! Ming would never_—

Or would she? whispered a treacherous little voice. You haven't seen her for four years. How do you know what she's been up to? How much she's changed?

"We have to see her," Al said, his voice trembling. "There has to be some mistake."

"Sorry, kid, no can do. She's not allowed to have any visitors." Havoc scratched his head. "Colonel's got her under surveillance 24/7. If you ask me, she's practically being treated like a terrorist."

"A terrorist? _Ming?_"The very thought was absurd. Images whipped through Ed's mind like lightning: Ming washing dishes, Ming buried in a mass of books, Ming laden with groceries, Ming jumping out of a burning window, Ming—

"Oh, yeah," Havoc said. "The colonel gave me a message for you."

Smoke filled the cold air as he exhaled, eyes darkening.

"'Keep an eye on Tucker.'"

* * *

"Colonel, the reports have come in."

"Yes?"

"Tucker claimed that his wife left him two years ago. A quick check was done in Muller—she hasn't been seen there in years. Her parents weren't even aware that the two had separated."

"Go on."

Hawkeye paused. "With all due respect, sir, it might not mean anything. Tucker couldn't say for certain if his wife had returned to her hometown. She might have moved to another part of Amestris—"

"What do the reports say?"

"…after becoming a State Alchemist, Tucker refused to disclose his research documents regarding the speaking chimera. He said it was classified information and that it was his life's work—he didn't know what he would do if someone else tried to steal it. You let him go at the time, Colonel."

Mustang rubbed his temples wearily. At the time, he'd thought that the man was just overzealous about his research. He had respected him as a fellow alchemist; given that Mustang didn't want to reveal his teacher's alchemy, either, he'd thought he could see where Tucker was coming from.

But if that girl was right, then perhaps it was for a different reason entirely…

It had been a ridiculous claim and a ridiculous bet. Tucker was a family man, through and through; Mustang had seen his home and the way he interacted with his daughter. The idea that he might have murdered his own wife was like thinking that Hughes might murder Gracia.

But Curtis had looked so certain, and it had been such a ridiculous lie, that Mustang had felt compelled to look into it. And the further and longer he searched, the more uncertain Tucker's position became.

Even if Tucker _had_ killed his wife, it was proving difficult to verify. The problem was that there really wasn't a way to track a person in Amestris, beyond things like bank account records—and seeing as Mrs. Tucker had shared a bank account with her husband, that was hardly helpful. At this point, Mrs. Tucker could just be labeled missing. There was simply no proof that she was dead, or that Tucker had had a hand in her death.

Of course, by proxy, it was equally difficult to prove Tucker innocent.

"The chimera's remains—where are they?"

Hawkeye shuffled the papers. "In Tucker's lab, sir. I believe he wanted to keep them for posthumous analysis."

Of course. Or so he could hide the evidence of what he had done…

"Sir?"

"What is it, Lieutenant?"

"If I may ask, sir…" Hawkeye set down the stack of files. "Why are you taking this bet so seriously?"

"That girl interests me. I have a feeling getting her cooperation would be worth it." Mustang glanced over the papers, tapping his pen idly. "Besides, human transmutation is one of alchemy's taboos—as his commanding officer, I have to investigate this, even if there's only a small chance that she's right."

Even if there was only a small chance, a life could be at stake; and that was something Roy Mustang-the human, not the soldier-wouldn't tolerate. Never again.

* * *

The cell she was in was small, but it was clean, and for that she was grateful. It was frugal, bare of everything except for a bed. It wasn't so bad, she comforted herself. At least she had a warm place to sleep, and food—a soldier brought her two meals a day (which usually consisted of some combination of bread and stew) and collected the empty trays afterwards. It beat park benches and alleyways.

She managed two days before the voices caught up with her.

"_We'll be back soon."_

_Hungergnawingatherstomach eventhoughshepromised_

"_Don't eat any of our rations, y'hear?"_

_Dayswherearetheywhere'dtheygo eventhoughtheypromised_

"_Aw, go easy on her, Enric—she's just a kid."_

_Circlescirclesalloverthewalls eventhoughhepromised_

"_Put your hands up—…those Ishballan dogs…dirty bastards…"_

"_**Well, it's a good thing they're dead."**_

_Theworldcollapsingaroundherears_

He heard the heavy, laborious breathing through the bars and hesitated before opening the cell door. "Miss Curtis?"

There was a sharp intake of breath, some fumbling in the darkness and then a muffled yelp. He saw her peering through the darkness. "…Mr. Mustang?"

He raised an eyebrow. Yes, it was him, and there was Hawkeye standing behind him as she always was. "Are you…alright?"

"Er—just fine, thanks." She scrambled up from her position on the ground, trying hard not to give away her disoriented state. For a split second, the blue and gold uniform had been streaked with soot and desert sand, and she had been five years younger, fresh with loss and ready to bring the entire compound down on them both—and she would have, if not for the pain that came with a broken arm that had jolted her awake. A grip. She had to get a grip. "Tucker?"

Mustang was eyeing her suspiciously, but he nodded. "We have him in custody. He confessed. To everything."

_Every…thing? _She didn't like the way he'd said it; there was a horrible finality in the word. She glanced from Mustang's tired eyes to Hawkeye's tense shoulders, and it clicked.

"…no."

"Miss Curtis?"

"No…" Images flashed through her mind: a little girl playing in the snow, Edward being tackled by a dog, Alphonse laughing, a man sitting at his desk with his head buried in his arms, a sad-eyed twisted thing with golden hair. "No. _No._ Why?!"

She was half-aware of rising and gripping Mustang's collar with her good hand, half-aware of hearing her voice rise into a helpless shriek. "I told you so you could _stop_ it, so it wouldn't happen—why didn't you, why, what good is it if nothing changes?! What good are _we?! _Why?! _Why?!_"

There was a loud bang, and then the smell of smoke, and something whipped past her ear. The cold barrel of a gun pointed at her head. Trembling fingers gripping the blue-and-gold collar.

"I'd like it if you could let go of me, Curtis," Mustang said calmly. He had dropped the 'Miss.' "…you're—no, you _were_ correct. Nina Tucker was fused with Tucker's dog."

"The bet," he said. "You won. Congratulations."

Was there a trace of bitterness in those words? Or was it just her imagination?

"No," she said, not really knowing what she was replying to, and then she let go.

That made it twice. Twice she'd failed. Two times, she had tried to change the world and the world had remained coldly immune to her efforts. What was it? Did that mean nothing could be changed? That anything she tried was futile? Was there "fate" or "destiny" in play here after all? A self-fulfilling prophecy?

Like a fish, struggling hopelessly against the current. Or a human, unable to save a little girl.

"—…Curtis. Curtis?"

"…what?"

"The bet is over. As promised, I won't press charges against you." He paused. "But I still expect you to give me any information you have."

At that, she snapped out of her reverie. _Right, I can't let this get me down. Two years—no, longer than that, my entire life has been for this. Nina…Nina isn't dead yet. I still have a chance…!_ She stood up again.

"There's a, a serial killer in the area who only kills State Alchemists," she said, tripping over her words. "His name is—Scar. Right now Mr. Tucker and Nina are being quarantined in their home, right? They're going to be his next victims—I'll tell you how I know later, this can't wait, we have to, you have to stop him—"

Mustang's eyes widened with every word she said, and Hawkeye took a step forward. Although the sharpshooter had lowered her gun after Ming let go of Mustang, she now glanced at her superior again. "Colonel—"

He held up a hand. "After this," he said slowly, "after this, you're going to tell me how you know so much. And I won't take any more excuses." He spun around, and then paused halfway. "One thing."

"Uh?"

The look in his eyes became stone cold. "If anything you tell me is false—if anyone dies because of you, I won't turn you into Central, as promised."

_I'll take care of you myself._

She swallowed thickly.

"You're coming with us," he said, turning back around. "Lieutenant, keep an eye on her."

"Yes, sir."

They walked down the stone cold corridors, Ming on slightly unsteady feet. As they emerged from the prisoner's building, she was surprised to be pelted by a torrent of water, to be met with a gray sky.

_That's right. It was raining on that day, wasn't it?_

* * *

**.**

**.**

**.**

**.**

**.**

"Young master, are you sure about this?"

"I'm sure."

Clothes were thrown haphazardly into a bag. A few coins flickered in the dim light before they were buried away into pockets and sleeves.

"Please think carefully about this. If you don't return—"

"Are you doubting me, Fu?"

"…no, young master. Forgive me for my impudence."

A pause, in action and in words.

"The emperor is dying. The most important thing to him now…is life. Whoever can bring him that—the key to immortality—will win his favor. It hasn't been achieved in Xing, so the only possibility is to look outside the country."

It was not a lie; he would never lead his servants on a wild goose chase. He simply wouldn't tell them that he would be searching for something else along the way.

Like immortality, like the coins in the light, a dim hope that flickered and disappeared when chased.

_**I'm coming for you, Ming.**_

* * *

**Edited 8.13.13**


	7. VI: prophet

**.S. I. N. H. E. A. R. T.**

**VI.**

_**prophet**_

"**The distance between insanity and genius is measured only by success." – Bruce Fierstein**

"**There is nothing wrong with change, if it is in the right direction." – Winston Churchill**

* * *

**three weeks prior**

"_Hello, this is East Area Headquarters."_

"I'd like to speak to Colonel Roy Mustang."

"_I'm sorry, but I'm not allowed to connect phones using an outside line to—"_

"I have a message from Lieutenant Maes Hughes of Central Headquarters. He's in an emergency."

"…_please give me your code."_

"Ankle, sugar, oliver, zero, zero."

"_I've confirmed the code. Please wait."_

"…_hello?"_

"Mr. Mustang?"

"_That's me. Who is this? What's happened to Hughes?"_

"Er, nothing. But I'd like to speak with you—"

"_I'm hanging up."_

"…First Lieutenant Riza Hawkeye is your subordinate as well as the daughter of your alchemy master. Her father, now deceased, tattooed the secrets of his flame alchemy onto her skin. In order to keep the knowledge from ever being used again, you burned her back and scarred it permanently."

"…"

"You entered the military and was sent to the extermination campaign of the Ishval War. After disillusionment on the front lines of a genocide, you began planning an ascent up the ranks of the government, to end with the position of Fuhrer. Your goals are to return this country to a true democra—"

"_Enough, I get the point."_

"…"

"_Just who the hell are you?"_

"Someone who needs your help, Mr. Mustang."

* * *

Ed couldn't remember when it happened. Maybe it was when they first met in Izumi's home, forever ago, when she dropped that stack of books as soon as she saw them.

"_It was the work of the devil."_

Or maybe it was when he first saw her and Izumi together, and watched as Izumi gave her the love he remembered his own mother giving him, once, and the girl had simply stood there awkwardly, without smile or blush or care.

"_We're nothing but human weapons of the military."_

"_Are you ready to dirty your own hands?"_

Or maybe it was when he first looked into those eyes, really looked into them, and saw the numbers and words and stars swirling where childhood innocence should have been.

"_In regard to human lives, there's not much of a difference between what that man did and what we should do."_

Even then he knew what it was that he was seeing. People had called him a genius, and true, he had had his books and numbers, but he had still smiled—still laughed—still been a child—as long as he had had his brother by his side.

As long as he had had Alphonse.

"_Even if you're called a dog or a devil, you're the one who decided to make full usage of the privileges of a State Alchemist to restore your bodies."_

But she hadn't, and perhaps that wasn't why, but it could have been part of why…

"_**Mom! Mom, look!"**_

When she first disappeared, he had gone over each and every memory he had of her at least a hundred times, racking his brain for clues as to places she could have gone, things she could have done. And then after the thoughts turned inside out, it was with shock that he had realized he had really known nothing about Ming at all.

"_**Look what I made!"**_

He couldn't understand how she'd gotten away with it. In conversation, in passing, in living with each other for _six months_, people _had_ to find out things about each other, didn't they? But he didn't know a thing, not even her favorite food or her favorite color or—hell, he didn't even know when her birthday was.

He wondered, for a while, if it had been deliberate, or maybe he just had a really bad memory.

"_**Oh? Did you transmute this? That's amazing! You really are your father's son!"**_

They had been friends, hadn't they?

"_**But…"**_

Edward Elric couldn't remember when it happened. Perhaps it had taken all six months of friendship and four years of searching and one day of finding and looking into her eyes and seeing, again, the numbers and words and stars, now with the crippled fear that wild animals had.

"…**you couldn't make me right."**

But somewhere along the line, he had realized that Ming…was not all there.

"_Don't fly too close to the sun."_

_**…and the rain fell.**_

* * *

Scar was nothing at all like Ming had expected.

Yes, he was white-haired and dark-skinned, he had on his characteristic tan jacket and his sunglasses, and yes, there it was, the thing on his forehead like a twisted mark from God. He was thick but limber and agile, his body a balance between pure muscle and sinew, strength for attacking and speed for escape; but this she had expected.

She hadn't expected the host of scars besides the one that gave him his name. She hadn't expected the way his right hand stopped just before it reached her head, so it felt like he was about to ruffle her hair. She hadn't expected the way the rainwater running down his cheeks would look like tears. She hadn't expected to find herself unable to run, because for a moment she saw _them_ in his eyes.

"What is a child doing with a dog of the military?"

His voice was deep, with the familiar, rustic accent, with the ringing tones she'd heard so very long ago.

"Is she your spawn, Flame Alchemist?"

The way he spat the title with quiet contempt snapped her back to reality.

"If she were my kid, I'd disown her on the spot," Mustang said flatly as he walked in through the doorway. There was an awful _squelch_ as he stepped in a puddle of Tucker's blood. "I don't know who you are or what motives you have, but you're under arrest. Come with us quietly and—"

"…—ddy…Daddy…Da….ddy…"

Mustang and Ming both glanced involuntarily at the sad-eyed thing on the ground.

The next thing Ming knew, Tucker's former house had been blown apart.

"Sonuva—!"

The explosion was much, much greater than Mustang's fireball at the train station had been. Instinctively, Ming grabbed hold of what had once been Nina Tucker and ducked down, her eyes stinging; shrapnel and the choking smell of fragmented paint and the metallic tang of bloodfilled the air.

Through the smell of breaking wood and shattering glass, she heard the distinct _bang_ of a gunshot, and then a grunt of pain. That must have been Hawkeye—had she hit her mark?

"Stay down, Lieutenant!" came Mustang's order.

And so there were no more gunshots, no more explosions until the smoke cleared, only the sound of Nina's whimpering. As for Scar—

"…he's gone," Ming said, stupidly.

Mustang grimaced as he stood up from where he'd been crouched behind a bookcase. "Thanks for pointing out the obvious." The look on his face changed from annoyance to revulsion mixed with pity as he caught sight of Tucker's corpse again. "Lieutenant, did you call for backup?"

"Back at headquarters, sir," she said, fingering her gun. She was looking over the ground, undoubtedly for a sign that Scar had been bleeding when he fled. But with Tucker and Scar's gruesome way of killing it was impossible to tell whose blood was whose.

However, Ming knew instinctively that Scar had been hit. And then he had fled, knowing he couldn't fight with a gunshot wound.

The relief that flooded into her was so staggering that she slumped under its weight. Something nosed her. "Da…ddy?"

She flinched.

She had forgotten that, in the commotion, she'd grabbed hold of Nina. Now she pulled back a little to study the dog-girl-child in detail: yellow fur, brown-gold hair that sprouted like a mane…there was nothing to suggest that this thing was human. It might even have been some odd mix between horse and canine.

Despite this, she felt revulsion pulsing beneath her good hand where it was settled on Nina's back. Every instinct she had screamed.

_Run! Get away from this thing! It's not natural!_

This thing. Dirty and different and _wrong_, so very wrong. She blanched when its eyes met hers: they were blank, glassy, and pupil-less.

Tears poured out of them.

"Daddy…wh…whe…Da…"

An innocent child, ruined forever, stuck in a body that wasn't hers.

"Daddy..."

For no real reason, Ming leaned forward again and wrapped her good arm fully around Nina, resting her head on Nina's shoulder, feeling the dog-girl-child's fur tickle her nose. The tears began to wet her shirt immediately. She ignored them. And she ignored the prickling that went up and down her spine, the urge to back away.

"He's dead, Nina. Daddy's dead. He's gone. He won't be coming back."

There was no pause in the whimpering. It only grew, and grew.

"I'm sorry. He's dead. I couldn't…we couldn't…"

And grew.

"I'm sorry…I'm sorry, I'm sorry."

She had to shout to be heard, now. At least that was her excuse for raising her voice, sounding broken and strangled.

"_I'm sorry!"_

Mustang and Hawkeye watched as the thing that was not quite a girl and not quite a dog threw back its head, and howled long and hard in grief and misery and pain; and the thing that was not quite a child but not quite a woman cried with her.

…_**and the rain fell.**_

* * *

.

.

.

The stars in the sky of the Eastern Desert were really quite nice.

Ling wondered, with an aching heart, if someday he would bring her back to see them with him.

.

.

.

* * *

Edward sat in the rain, unfeeling, unmoving. Water poured down on his skin and drenched his clothes. His thoughts had reached a blur: Nina. Useless. Nina. Tucker. Nina. Human. Nina. Dog. Nina. Death. NinaNinaNina_Nina_—

The streets of East City were empty; no one wanted to be outside on a rainy day. Except for one person…

A man with shocking white hair and sunglasses walked right past the boy in the red jacket without a single glance.

In his state of grief, Edward didn't register the dark red spots on the man's clothing that could have been blood.

* * *

"So," Mustang said slowly, "what kind of information can you offer me?"

There was a long silence.

He eyed the girl in front of him. She looked like she hadn't gotten much sleep; there were circles beneath her black eyes, and her skin had an unhealthy pallor. Her black hair had been messily pulled up in its customary ponytail, leaving her bangs in her face and strands falling out here and there. Her broken arm hung in its cast. Finally, she was far too skinny for a girl her age.

All in all, she didn't look like a very reliable source, or even a sane one.

"What I'm about to tell you will sound crazy," Curtis said at last. He snorted at the irony before collecting himself.

"I'm an alchemist. Everything we do, the civilians call 'crazy.' Try me."

There, her lips quirked.

"Do you have a map of Amestris?"

He looked surprised, but reached into a nearby desk and drew forth a worn piece of paper.

"And a pen?"

He pulled that out too, but handed it to her cautiously; he wouldn't put it past her to start stabbing him with it. But instead, she looked at it for a while and then looked at him.

"You're going to have to be my hands," she said. "Broken arm, remember?" And she wiggled the fingers that were currently trapped in her cast. He took the pen back with a grimace. (It was hard to remember she was injured when she was being so obnoxious.)

She leaned over the desk and lowered her voice.

"How much do you know about the civilization of Xerxes?"

Two hours later, Mustang's head was spinning, but he was trying desperately not to show it. Curtis had been wrong. What she had just told him wasn't crazy.

It wasn't just crazy, it was outright bat-shit oh-my-God-this-isn't-happening who-put-the-crack-in-my-coffee _insane._

And yet she, the person who was insane by default for believing in her own madness, was staring at him calmly, uncapping the pen that had drawn out a roadmap of his doom. "…any questions?"

Any questions? Any _questions? _Mustang wanted to laugh. He wanted to take this girl and lock her up for her own good. He wanted to send her to the nearest asylum. He wanted to call Hawkeye and order her to slap him; maybe that would wake him up. He wanted to burn up the piece of paper in front of him, and then burn the ashes, and forget about it all. He wanted to strangle Curtis for looking so calm, looking like the words that had just come out of her mouth were as normal as speaking about the weather. He wanted—hell, he wanted his _paperwork._ Anything to get this harbringer of death out of his office—actually, no, that wasn't far enough, preferably out of his _city._ Maybe even out of his country.

This country that she said wasn't his, or Edward's, or even Bradley's; no, it was the property and creation of a four-hundred-year-old entity, a creation like an ant farm. Or a gingerbread house. Created for amusement, and eventually, for devouring.

Any questions?

"Just one," he wanted to say. "When was your last visit to the psychiatrist?"

But there was still the evidence. The evidence that he could not ignore.

Tucker's crimes, for one thing: she had predicted those. There was his relationship with Hawkeye. And then there was the transmutation she had drawn out for him, the events that seemed too eerily connected to be a coincidence. The way the nation was shaped—like a circle. The way it was controlled, by war and fear and power, by a Fuhrer with no known past.

It was preposterous. It sounded like a conspiracy theory, the kind you read in tabloids and obscure underground newsletters.

And yet…

_Because if there's even a small chance, it means a life is at stake._

_Because if there's even a small chance, it means that everything is at stake._

Any questions?

"Three," he said. "First—how do you know all this? What do you have to do with this plot?" _Are you an enemy, or a friend?_ The question hung in the air, unspoken.

She was smiling now, bitterly. "That one you would never believe."

Well, then, that complicated things. He drummed his fingers on his desk, mind racing furiously. The cynic in him warned that the girl could have obtained the information through other means, that she was lying through her teeth or insane, that she was dangerous; meanwhile, the other side of him was fumbling with the possibilities.

"Then why are you telling me all this?" he challenged, trying to pinpoint her motives. "What's in it for you?"

"…why does anyone help anyone else?"

He didn't miss how she had hesitated and then deflected the question.

"So you're telling me you're a pure altruist?" He snorted. "Forgive me if I don't believe you; I'm a colonel, not a wet-behind-the-ears cadet. You're going to have to tell me your motives."

She bristled. "What difference does it make? I want to stop all this from happening; you understand that much, don't you? And besides, you promised you would believe me."

"I promised I would _believe_ you, not that I would _trust_ you," he pointed out. "And right now, I don't trust you very much."

She flinched. It was subtle, but there nonetheless. Sensing an opening, he pressed.

"So suppose you _are_ just an altruist," he said. "What makes this responsibility? Why do you care?"

The look on her face was unreadable, and for a moment he thought he had gone too far. But rather than crumbling, she straightened and gritted her teeth.

"That's none of your business," she said coldly.

They stared at each other in silence.

At last, Mustang leaned back and sighed. "So it seems we are at impasse," he observed calmly.

She said nothing.

After eyeing her for a while, he nodded. "Very well..."

_I _will _find out your motives_, he wanted to warn her. _And when I do, they had better be as pure as you say they are, or I'll be the one who sees you burned._

"My second question, then. What are you planning?" he said instead.

It wasn't hard to see the relief on Ming's face, or the relaxation in her posture, as she changed subjects.

"Tim Marcoh, the Crystal Alchemist," she said, without hesitation. Yet again, a name she was not supposed to know. Mustang was surprised, not by the words coming out of her mouth, but by the fact that he wasn't surprised by the words coming out of her mouth.

"You know him, right?" Of course he did; how could he not? They had served on the same battlefield, after all. "He deserted the military after the Ishvallan Civil War. He was employed in the creation of Philosopher's Stones through the use of Ishvallan lives during the war, so he knows how to destroy them."

She paused. "That's an important skill we _need_ to acquire, so I'll be searching for him next."

The 'Crystal' Alchemist—of course, he thought. How simple. How obvious, how well-hidden in plain sight.

"I have a vague idea of where he is," she said. "And he knows maybe about half the stuff I know, so he'll make a valuable ally. Also, where he is now, he's potentially in danger, so it's best that I find him as quickly as possible." She paused and looked at him, as if for approval; this was so unexpected that he actually hesitated for a moment.

But he quickly regained his bearings. "'I'?" he said, raising an eyebrow. "You're planning on recruiting him personally? What makes you think I'll even let you leave East Headquarters with the information you know?"

She looked startled at this. He crossed his legs under the desk, and waited for her next move.

"Um," she said quite articulately.

It was the first time he had heard her stutter since Shou Tucker's death.

"I—I've survived this far without giving away any of it, except to you," she began slowly. Her tone of voice changed; it became less certain, younger, as if she had just remembered her age and position. Mustang made a mental note of it. "I don't want to give away Marcoh's location to anyone else, especially someone in the military; it's too dangerous. And—"

She swallowed, and straightened again.

"—even though I'm involving you, this is my responsibility. I want to do as much as I can, on my own."

He eyed her silently. Those reasons were weak—but the resolve in her eyes was strong.

"Fine," he finally said. "What else?"

She relaxed again. Did she have any idea how obvious her body language was?

"Scar," she said.

The name was vaguely familiar. He suddenly remembered: it was the name that had tumbled out of Ming's lips when she heard that Tucker had been taken into custody. A face with an X across the forehead, like a branded convict from ancient times, flashed across his mind's eye.

"The serial killer," she said, confirming his suspicions. "He's an Ishvallan, he targets State Alchemists for revenge. And we have to find him. He has the reverse transmutation circle that can prevent the activation of the one the homunculi designed. I—actually don't have any real plan for finding him, at the moment, but because he targets State Alchemists, I'm sure you'll come across him eventually."

A deserter and a serial killer. Wonderful. Mustang felt his headache growing stronger.

"And lastly, there's Van Hohenheim. He's the most important guy—he's a living Philosopher's Stone now, and he knows pretty much everything I know. He also has plans of his own to stop the transmutation, so he's invaluable as an ally. The only problem is I'm not sure where he is right now…he travels around a lot, and even though I've been wandering for years, I haven't come across him once even by accident."

He noted an undertone of bitterness in her voice.

She paused. "Oh, and, um—he's also, well, Edward and Alphonse's father."

Mustang froze.

"You didn't mention that before," he said at last. "His last name isn't Elric—?"

"They took their mother's last name," she said quietly. "Van Hohenheim and Trisha Elric never married."

Leaving not even a name for his sons to bear? No wonder Edward was so bitter and resentful towards the man. Some of Mustang's distaste must have shown on his face, for Curtis quickly added, "A-Anyway, Edward and Alphonse don't know anything about their father's situation…"

"You're a close friend of theirs, aren't you?" Mustang said. "And you wouldn't tell them?"

She shook her head quickly. "It would be better for it to come from Hohenheim himself, I think. And—I'm not that close of a friend. I don't know how they would react, and there's no way I could explain how I know."

True; she hadn't explained that to Mustang yet, either.

"Anyone else you want to introduce to me?" he asked, bracing himself for anything.

She shook her head again. "That's all so far."

_That's all_, she said. A deserter, a serial killer, and a living Philosopher's Stone? _What a freak show._

This would be very different from the game he had been playing ever since Ishval, the game of sucking up and pulling strings and climbing slowly higher. There was much, much more on the line now: more than his conscience, the lives of his comrades, the trust that had been placed in him.

Any lesser man would have felt overwhelmed. Mustang, on the other hand, felt the strangest sense of calm as his headache slowly faded away and his trademark smirk fell into place.

"One last question," he said. Curtis cocked her head. "Why are you telling me all this?"

She blinked once, twice, and then said bluntly, "'Cuz you're one of the good guys."

"…"

_Simple-minded_, he thought.

_Not at all_, she thought. Because in every story, there's a villain, there's a hero, there are people you know you can trust and there are people who you would never turn your back to.

In every story.

(Even one that has come to life.)

Suddenly, she cleared her throat. "If you're done, I have a question for you, too."

"What?"

She bowed her head and didn't say anything for a while, as if gathering her courage in silence. Finally, she looked up, desperation flashing in her eyes.

"What's going to happen to Nina?"

* * *

"You want to _what?_"

"I want to go to Resembool."

Edward's face was incredulous. Ming, however, looked unaffected.

"Why?" Al asked. "Shouldn't you go back to Dublith to see Master first?"

She paused for only a fraction of a second before she answered. "Yeah, but Resembool's closer by. And I wanted to go—apologize. To Mrs. Rockbell. And Winry," she added, as an afterthought.

Ed made a kind of strangled noise. "Let me get this straight. We—and Master—don't see you for four years, you have a broken arm, you were just released from custody, and you want to go to _Resembool_? Are you stupid?"

Yes, Ming had been released from custody—a day ago, in fact. Alphonse personally thought that it was quite opportune. It had been a week since the incident with Shou Tucker, and he could tell that his big brother was still depressed about their failure to save Nina. And then there was the added weight of Tucker's death; after Lieutenant Hawkeye informed them, Edward had said, rather vehemently, that "the bastard was better off dead."

But Tucker had been kind to them for a while, even if it had only been a façade to hide his true intentions, and Al was sure that his big brother was upset about that in his own way. And Al was, too.

So he was glad that Ming had been released. The thought of Ming sitting in a holding cell, especially with her broken arm, had been nagging the two brothers since they found out about it. Her release lightened things, even if it was just a little, even though both Mustang and Ming had refused to tell them what her confinement had been for.

"Tell you some other time," Ming had said, while the Colonel said simultaneously, "I'm afraid that's classified information, Fullmetal."

Then the two of them had glared at each other. Well, they had glanced at each other, looking rather annoyed.

Meanwhile, Ed hadn't been very happy either.

"Who the hell does he think he is, telling me it's none of my business?!" he'd scoffed. "Ming's business _is_ our business! 'Classified information' my ass—I bet he just doesn't wanna get in trouble for locking someone up for no reason!"

Alphonse sighed at the thought. Why did his big brother have to be so hotheaded?

Now they were in the train station, waiting to buy their tickets. Ed had immediately gotten in the line for Dublith, which had led Ming to protest, which had led to the current conversation, though Alphonse was secretly glad for the argument, too, because before it his older brother had been morosely silent.

"I'm not stupid," Ming said, sounding rather annoyed. Al had noticed it before, but he only remembered it just now—she was really sensitive when it came to slights about her intelligence. "I'm gonna go see Resembool eventually. It's closer from East City than Dublith. Plus, I bet you guys haven't visited in months. I bet you haven't even written Winry lately, huh, Ed?"

Ed and Al both flinched at that.

It was the truth. Edward _had_ promised to write Winry, but they were always on the move, always so busy that he never seemed to find the time; and their last visit to Resembool (when Ed had last broken his automail, predictably enough) had been half a year ago.

Alphonse felt bad about it, he really did, and he could tell big brother did too, but they were just so busy…

And the other part of it was that he didn't really _want_ Winry to know about the lives they were living. That part of him knew he was making Winry worry, but somehow he thought that was better than worrying about them risking their lives on every single mission. Edward never said it out loud, but Al knew he felt the same way.

"So," Ming pronounced slowly, "let's go to Resembool. Please?" she added, which had been uncharacteristic of her lately.

"Big Brother," Al said uncertainly, "maybe we should. We _haven't_ seen Winry in a long time, and I'm sure Auntie Pinako'll be glad to see Ming's okay—"

"Oh, fine," Ed finally gave in, looking very annoyed at having been guilt-tripped into agreement. "But we're going straight to Dublith after, got it?"

Ming nodded.

Of course, she didn't say anything aloud, so it wasn't really a lie, right?

In truth, she already had a fairly good idea of what she was going to do afterward. Giving everything away to Mustang had been surprisingly invigorating, exhilarating even—she had finally moved forward, finally pushed over the domino. The chessmaster had been given the pieces; the game had begun.

And she believed in Mustang. She had never thought, for once, that anything would be too much for him, any move too dangerous, any information too overwhelming. Because seriously, he was _Roy Mustang._

She was sure that he would figure something out.

Her move, meanwhile, had been decided. The visit to Resembool would be a pretense. What she needed was the rest stop along the way—the village without a name, the one she had dubbed "Marcoh's Hometown." He was practicing as a modest town doctor, she knew, and she would find him there. Without fail.

"Oh, excuse me."

"No, that was my fau—achoo!" Ming suddenly began to sneeze. Sniffling and rubbing her nose, she backed away a little. "Sorry, that was really—achoo!—gross, wasn't it? On top of bumping into—a-aa-chooo!"

"Not at all," the dark-haired woman said graciously, even as she backed away as well, rather disgusted by the snot on her jacket. "I'm afraid I have to get going."

"Achoo!" Ming rubbed her eyes furiously. "Alphonse, is there a bathroom around here somewhere? I need to wash up."

"There's one over there to the right," Al informed her, pointing. "But are you okay, Ming? Did you catch a cold?"

She sniffled again, looking rather miserable; it was the first time either of the brothers had seen her in such a state. Her face was growing red and blotchy, while her nose was rapidly beginning to resemble a clown's, and her eyes were watering. She sneezed again, violently. "I'unno," she said, sounding incredibly stuffy. "I'eel gross."

"Well, hurry up and go wash your face," Ed grumbled, not unkindly. "We'll buy the tickets."

"Mmkay." She sneezed again as she walked away. Violently. "Achoo!"

* * *

"_**Hello? Yes, it's me. Mm-hmm. There's a girl with them—no, she wasn't there at Liore. Snot-nosed little…hm? I don't know if she's a threat yet, but I'll keep an eye on her just in case."**_

_**Perfect lips curved in a cruel smile.**_

"_**She might make a good **_**sacrifice,**_** after all."**_

* * *

"Colonel, sir," Hawkeye said dubiously. "With all due respect…do you really believe all that?"

Mustang's brow furrowed as he stared at his desk, on which sat the pile of ashes that had once been his country.

"I do," he said at last.

Hawkeye waited patiently for an explanation.

"It's too crazy not to be true." He paused. "Besides…we'll find out soon enough if she's telling the truth."

Hawkeye was silent for a bit. Then she said briskly, "What's our first step, sir?"

"_I'm going to find Marcoh," _she'd said. _"You're Roy Mustang. You're the chessmaster. You figure something out."_ She had said it with a kind of relief, like a weight had been taken from her shoulders. For a moment Mustang felt a pang of annoyance: she was pushing the responsibility onto him.

"Sir?"

"Right." He stood up. "Lieutenant, what's the current situation in Liore?"

And she had _known_, too. That he wouldn't be able to turn back.

Manipulative, cheeky little—

* * *

Ming sneezed.

"That's really gross," Edward said, scrunching up his face and leaning back in his seat to put some more distance between them. "You've been sneezing nonstop since we got to the station. Allergies or something?"

"I on'y get allergies in the spring," Ming said, rubbing her nose in a decidedly unladylike way. "I don' see why—ACHOO!"

"Are you okay, Ming?" Al said worriedly. "Maybe you should ask for some water."

"'m good, thanks," she mumbled. Then she stood. "Mgh. I'll go see if they have napkins or something."

As she walked down the aisle, she passed, again, the woman with black hair, and at the exact same time, the train slowed to a stop.

Edward leaned his head against the window, letting his eyes close. Alphonse settled in his seat as best a suit of armor could, and sank into the pages of an alchemy book.

A minute passed—two minutes—five minutes.

"…brother?" Alphonse said timidly.

Said brother opened a bleary eye. "Yeah?"

"Where's Ming?"

Edward yawned. "Dunno. Probably still bugging the attendants for tissues. Or maybe she—"

The train began to move again. He froze mid-yawn.

Alphonse closed his book, looking as worried as a suit of armor could look. "B-Brother?"

"I'll be right back," the golden-haired boy said abruptly, and then shot up from his seat and started to run down the aisle.

Five seconds later, he was back, his eye twitching and a vein bulging in his forehead. "That little—SHE DITCHED US!"

* * *

_I bet Ed is exploding at around right now_. Ming sneezed again, but less violently than she had on the train. _I hope I got off on the right stop. It would suck if I didn't._

The road she was walking on was rocky. This town, the one Marcoh had most likely chosen for his home, was similar to Resembool but less lush, less picturesque; there were fields, but the houses were simple and made of stone or concrete, and the workers were somehow a little less vibrant, holding an air that reminded her a little of Youswell.

"Excuse me," she said awkwardly, catching the attention of a few passersby, "I'm looking for Dr. Mauro—do any of you know where his clinic is?"

"Need him to look at your arm?" said a friendly looking bear of a man. "Don'tcha worry, he'll fix you right up. He's a good man, Mauro is." He pointed her in the direction of the doctor's home, simply grinning when she thanked him. "Naw, it's nothin'. By the way, the doctor might not be in right now—he goes around makin' house calls at this time."

"Thanks," she said, again, and he waved her off.

Marcoh lived near the center of town, which she supposed was a good location for a doctor. His house, made of concrete like the rest of the homes, wasn't exactly the best-looking she had ever seen—from the outside it seemed austere, even barren, and hardly welcoming. She trudged up the intimidating-looking set of stairs, which brought her to the front door.

Without hesitation, she knocked. "Excuse me? I'm looking for Dr. Mauro?"

The door opened.

Tim Marcoh was an obviously aging man—in his fifties, perhaps—with white streaks in a receding hairline, small eyes and a prominent nose, frown lines and deep-set crow's feet. He dressed in plain, unassuming clothing and gave the impression of being serious, kindly, and, above all, very _tired_.

After all he'd been through, she supposed he had good reason to be.

He immediately spotted her broken arm and smiled. "Come on inside."

"Um," she said as he closed the door behind her, "I'm not actually—" here for my arm, she wanted to say, but he interrupted her.

"It's fine," he said kindly. "We'll work something out with your parents. Now, sit down over here—" he pointed to a chair in the corner "—and I'll take a look at it. It seems to have been set quite nicely, though, so I don't think you have anything to worry about."

As soon as Ming sat down in the chair, not knowing what else to do, she sneezed violently. Then she sneezed again. And again. She leaned against the wall, starting to feel dizzy, but that just made her sneezing fit worse; her throat began to feel raw, her eyes blurred. Marcoh was saying something, looking worried, but she couldn't make it out.

"S-Sorry—" she said between sneezes. "I don't know why I've been—ACHOO!—doing—ACHOO!—this. Started a few hours ago—ACHOO!—if you're gonna fix—ACHOO!—anything, I guess this would be—ACHOO!—first—" But she doubted he could understand her either. She started to cough; tears welled up in her eyes.

"Here, have some water," Marcoh said, passing her a cup that had been sitting on his table. "Do you have a headache?"

"N—" she began, but pain was starting to build up in her temples, so she settled for a nod. And then a sniff.

"Any other symptoms? Stomachache?" She shook her head no. "It could be a cold, but I doubt it. It sounds more like hay fever to me. I'll take your temperature just in case."

So saying, he stood up and walked over to a drawer, pulling out a glass thermometer. He was just about to turn back around when she said, quickly, "Dr. Marcoh!"

The sound of shattering glass filled the room.

He didn't turn around.

"Dr. Marcoh," Ming said. Then she sneezed. Frustrated, she stood up from the chair and set the cup of water on the sink, and maybe it was her imagination, but her headache started to subside. "Dr. Marcoh, I know—ACHOO!—who you are. I know what—ACHOO!—you did, and I—ACHOO!—know. About the war. ACHOO! About the—Phi—"

She was interrupted this time by spasm of coughs that made her double over. _Great. That speech was very impressive, Ming. _When she straightened back up, Marcoh was facing her, an expression of utmost horror on his face as he leaned back against the sink.

"You…who are you?"

She tried to smile reassuringly but managed only a grimace. "I'm…" she wracked her mind for the right word. A psychic? A terrorist? An ally? "I'm…ACHOO!—a friend."

* * *

"I can't believe she _did _that," Edward said for the twentieth time, a dark scowl on his face. "The next time I see her I'm gonna—!"

"But Brother," Al said sorrowfully, "we don't even know if we _will_ see her a next time."

Ed fell silent. What Al had said was true, but it was difficult to face, and both of them knew it. To find her after four years, and then to have her slip out of their grasp so soon…there were so many questions they hadn't asked her. So many things they still didn't know. Why she had left, where she had been, why Mustang had taken her into custody, what she knew about the Philosopher's Stone…

"We will," Edward said stubbornly, turning away to glare at the window. "I'll hunt her down if it's the last thing I do."

The train chugged on.

The black-haired woman a few rows down flipped another page of her newspaper.

* * *

**Edited 8.13.13**


	8. VII: messenger

**S. I. N. H. E. A. R. T.**

**VII.**

_**messenger**_

"**The distance between insanity and genius is measured only by success." – Bruce Fierstein**

"**There is nothing wrong with change, if it is in the right direction." – Winston Churchill**

* * *

"_A friend?! You can't expect me to believe that!" Hands shaking. Scrambling for a gun. Cold metal and cold fear. "I'm warning you, I'll shoot!"_

"_I'm—ACHOO!—telling you, I'm not an—ACHOO!—enemy!" Watery eyes, stuffy nose, and a prickling instinct in her scalp. "I mean—ACHOO!—what kind of pathetic enemy would—ACHOO!—come to you with allergies and—ACHOO!—a broken arm?"_

"_You're one of them!" he snapped. "I know how cunning you are! You're Envy, aren't you?! I really will—"_

_She spread her arms wide open calmly. "Shoot me," she said._

_They stood frozen like that, girl and man._

"_ACHOO!"_

_Then the tense moment was ruined._

"_ACHOO!"_

"…" _After a moment, Marcoh lowered his gun. "What do you want from me?" he sounded defeated. "If it's the Stone—"_

"_No, no! ACHOO!" Ming waved her hand in the universal 'negative' gesture. "I'm…not interested in making a Philosopher's Stone."_

**.**

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* * *

Contrary to popular belief, Winry was not blind.

Sure, she had been happy when Ed and Al suddenly appeared after six months of no news whatsoever. Ecstatic, even, although she hid her joy by smacking Ed over the head with her wrench. The two brothers were her best friends—she had grown up with them—and wandering through Resembool without them just wasn't the same. She had missed them both more than she could possibly say.

But, happy though she was, she wasn't blind. She wasn't stupid, either. She knew _something_ had to have happened when Al's eyes were constantly sad, when Ed only argued with her grandma half-heartedly, when Ed's face dropped into a gloomy, unreadable look when he thought no one was watching him. She also knew that however much she wished it wasn't the case, Ed and Al wouldn't simply drop by out of the blue, with Ed's automail clearly undamaged.

On the second day, she stood up and slammed her hands down on the breakfast table. "Alright, what's up?"

Ed and Al looked up at her, startled. Al had been petting Den; the younger boy had always had a soft spot for animals. Ed had been stuffing his face. Now he said through a mouthful of eggs and sausage, "Mmfghhuumhout?"

"Don't talk and eat at the same time," Pinako said. Short though the old woman was, she seemed to tower over her own plate at the head of the table.

Ed swallowed, though he scowled at Pinako before he did so. "What're you talking about?"

"Why're you guys here?" Winry folded her arms. "And don't give me that 'we-just-wanted-to-see-you' excuse. You and I both know you never show up unless something's going on."

"Winry," Pinako rebuked immediately, but the damage had been done. A look of surprise and hurt flashed over Ed's face.

"What?" he said when he had recovered, "we're such jerks we can't even drop by to visit you on our own?"

Winry immediately regretted her words. "That's not what I—"

"That's what it sounded like," Ed snapped. "Fine, then." He got up so fast the chair fell over behind him. "C'mon, Al."

"Big Brother?" the boy-turned-suit-of-armor said nervously.

"We're leaving."

"What?" Winry said, stunned.

Angry golden eyes turned towards her. "It's not like I wanted to drop by in the first place," Ed muttered, although his tone was less harsh than before. "If Ming hadn't—" But the thought seemed to rouse his frustration again, and he cut himself off, stalking out of the room.

There was a long moment of silence after he left. Winry felt as if she'd just been hit with a brick. Or, maybe, she thought ironically, trying to recover from the shock, by one of her own wrenches.

"I'm so sorry about Big Brother," Al said after a while, sounding panicked and confused, as if he himself were coming out of shock. "I don't—he's just frustrated, that's all! Some things happened, and he's got a lot on his mind, and—"

"Did Ed say…Ming?"

The pause in Al's voice was audible. "Yeah."

It was Pinako who inhaled a deep breath from her pipe, and said, curiously, "Ming—that little girl who came here four years ago? Your teacher's daughter?"

_The one who ran away? _went unsaid.

Al's armor head bobbed hesitantly. "That was her."

"And did you…find her?" Winry asked, not sure which answer she wanted to hear.

Al bobbed his head "yes" again. The red lights he had for eyes lowered, the way they did when he was ashamed, or thinking about something sad. Winry stared at her eggs, suddenly not at all hungry, despite having not eaten dinner the night before.

"So why," she said at last, "is Ed so mad?"

"She left again," Al whispered.

Winry felt a flash of indignation nearly overwhelm her, but it was Pinako who leaned forward and said, her eyes intent: "She _what?_"

"I'm sure she had a reason!" Al defended immediately. "She left us on the train at one of the in-between stops. That's why Big Brother's so mad," he added, needlessly. "He can't believe—I guess I can't, either." He laughed now, and it was a sad, bitter laugh. "We finally found her, and she just ran away again. She could be anywhere by now."

"Oh, Al," Winry whispered, instinctively reaching over to touch his gigantic hand. He couldn't feel it, she knew, but he always appreciated the gesture—the reminder that they still considered him human. Winry left her hand over his, and then let the silence fall again, trying to comprehend this new information, trying to understand what it meant.

So they'd found Ming. Winry knew that this should have been a good thing, that she should have been happy for them all. Ed and Al had searched desperately for Ming after she had disappeared. Although Winry had never known Ming personally, she had realized that Ming was an important friend to the Elrics. To find her after all this time, when they had been so close before...the Elrics must have been overjoyed. _Ed_ must have been overjoyed. But there was a bitter taste on Winry's tongue as she thought about that joy, and how Ming had run away, yet again.

Winry imagined what Ming must look like. She was Izumi and Sig's daughter, so she must have black hair and eyes, and was probably very pretty…she felt a pang of bitterness again.

"Winry?"

"Mm?" She looked up at Al.

"Brother will come back," he said, the red light in his eyes kind. "He didn't mean it. He's probably just taking a walk to cool off. He'll be back soon to apologize."

Winry managed a weak smile. Trust good old Al to know exactly what she was thinking. "Yeah."

She forced herself to dig into her eggs—she had work to do that day, and it would take energy. Besides, it just wasn't like Winry Rockbell to sit at a table, consumed by negative thoughts and feelings about a person she didn't even know.

* * *

**.**

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**.**

"So these are the ruins of Xerxes," Ling breathed. "They're magnificent."

Suddenly, something caught his eye.

"Prince?" Fu asked when Ling rode away from them. "Where are you going?"

"To see something," Ling called back. "Don't worry, it will only take a minute."

"It's not safe," Fu called. When he received no reply, he glanced at his granddaughter, who was still masked. She was probably suffering under the sweltering heat, with their traditional black robes and armor. "Follow him."

Lanfan nodded assent and kicked her horse into gear.

**.**

**.**

**.**

**.**

**.**

* * *

"_Damn it!_"

Ed kicked a rock. It flew off into the distance. A brief pause and a low, complaining baa told him that it had just hit an innocent sheep on the head. "Crap," he muttered. He had half the mind to apologize before he realized how stupid that would look—a state alchemist, apologizing to a sheep—and hurried away with a scowl.

He knew he shouldn't have exploded on Winry like that, but he'd been on pins and needles ever since they'd come to Resembool. He wanted to hurry up with his search for the Philosopher's Stone. Each day he saw Al in that armor body of his was a day too many.

And then there was the unbearable thought that he'd finally, finally found Ming, only to lose her—no, be lost by her all over again.

He kicked another rock.

It pissed him off. Actually, everything about Ming pissed him off. From her lack of expression to her cracks at his height to the way he didn't know anything about her—there was something about chasing an entity like that for four years that eventually made you hate her. Hate the way she danced at the edge of your vision, always there but just out of sight. Hate the way you didn't seem to matter. Hate the way you knew that even if you caught her, she would flutter out of your grasp.

Hate the way you couldn't stop chasing her, even when you knew it was futile…

_Damn it_, he mentally cursed. _Damn it, damn it, damn it!_ He prepared to kick another rock.

"Edward? Is that you?"

His head jerked up and he scowled, opening his mouth to yell at Winry to leave him alone.

His mouth stayed wide open.

Ming stood there, holding up her good hand in a half-hearted greeting. "Hi. I'm, uh, back?"

…hate the way she appeared out of nowhere, throwing him in and out of turmoil again and again.

"_Ming?!_" The rush of relief and disbelief that hit him almost threw him off his feet. "You…you came back…"

She smiled that awkward smile of hers—the one where you could tell she was happy, and was trying to be happy, but had no idea what to say. "You didn't think I was going to ditch you…did you?"

Edward almost punched her, but settled for glaring at her instead, though the involuntary grin on his face probably ruined the effect. He could feel half the tension from the past two days disappearing just as he drank in her presence. "Where have you been?!"

"I got off the train to go to the bathroom…" she began slowly, and he subconsciously leaned forward. "…and when I came back, it was gone."

Silence. A sheep baaed in the distance.

"You…do you even know how stupid that sounds?" he said blankly.

"And then I wandered around the town," she went on like he hadn't said anything. "I got really hungry but I didn't have any money. I was prepared to sleep on the road, but I met this nice guy who offered me food and a place to stay…in exchange I had to work for him for two days…"

"…" He stared at her in disbelief, his eye twitching. _That's—incredibly—super shady! Unbelievably suspicious! How could she have fallen for such an obvious ploy?!_

Suddenly, something occurred to him. An idea that tipped his world off its axis but, at the same time, explained a lot of things.

_Don't tell me…Ming…_

"He was really nice, so I agreed," Ming said. "He took me to his house…"

Edward felt as though he had turned to stone.

…_actually doesn't have any common sense?!_

"…and it turned out that he was a doctor, so I helped him by organizing his files and things. He gave me money for the train to Resembool, too. But then when I got here I realized I didn't know where the Rockbell house was. So I was wandering around until I saw you," she finished. Then she frowned in confusion. "Edward? What's wrong?"

"You—you're so—" Edward was at loss for words.

Finally, he gave up and threw up his hands. "Just—argh! Hurry up! We're going back to Winry's house!"

"Ah—actually, I was thinking of going to the inn first to book my room."

"What're you talking about?" he frowned at her. "You're staying with us."

"…oh," she said. She appeared to be speechless for a few seconds. Then she said, "Is that okay? I really don't think that's a good—"

He rolled his eyes and grabbed her wrist. "Come on, let's go already."

* * *

**.**

**.**

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**.**

**.**

"My prince?" Lanfan called softly. She forced her horse to come to a halt as she saw Ling.

He had dismounted; his horse stood tethered to a nearby column. He himself was standing in front of a crumbling old ruin. Much larger than the others, it was covered with moss and appeared to be a mural of some kind.

"My prince," she said again, drawing closer.

He started as if he hadn't heard her coming. "Oh, Lanfan. I told Fu I'd be back in a minute."

"It's not safe here, my prince," she urged. "Our guide said there may be rebels hiding in these ruins."

"Just a minute," he repeated. He was still staring at the stone mural.

She waited for a while. Then, timidly, she ventured, "Is there something important about this picture, my Prince?"

"I don't know," Ling said after a long pause. He was squinting now. "Look at it closely—does it remind you of something?"

She scrutinized it obediently. "…it's a circle," she finally said. "But…an odd one. It has many strange symbols…is it alkahestry, perhaps?"

Ling started. "Alkahestry! Of course! So that's why it looked familiar," he muttered, presumably to himself, but Lanfan's sharp ears caught his words.

"My prince?"

He shook his head. "No, it's nothing." He glanced at the circle again. "Are you _sure _this is alkahestry?"

"No, my prince," she admitted, a little unnerved by his fascination. "It appears…different, from the circles I've seen." A few of her relatives were practitioners, though none were skilled enough to be chosen for the journey. "It may be the alkahestry of Amestris—what the Philosopher's Stone is made of."

Ling hummed, as though reflecting on this information.

"…they say this country was obliterated in a single day," he said. "Yet it is also said that they knew alkahestry—no, alchemy. I wonder how such a country perished."

Lanfan was beginning to feel seriously uncomfortable. Perhaps it was because of the ruins—but she felt as though they were being watched. Perhaps by the ghosts of the Xerxes people, from hundreds of years ago…

No, such thoughts were foolish. She lived in the daytime, to protect her prince, not under the superstitions of the night. Dismissing her fears, she nudged her horse forward again.

"Perhaps it is best that we return, my prince," she suggested awkwardly, unable to give him a direct command. "We need to find a place to camp."

"You're right," Ling said immediately. He walked over to his horse.

His fascination with alchemy and the circle must have been because of the Philosopher's Stone, Lanfan told herself. After all, that was why they were here. For the Stone. To restore the glory of their clan, and gain the Emperor's favor…

And yet, a part of her still remained unsettled by the sadness in Ling's eyes. And what was it that he had whispered just now, as he passed beneath her horse?

**.**

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* * *

Ming stood awkwardly on the front porch as Winry and Pinako stared at her.

"Uh," she said. "Nice to meet you?"

Pinako recovered from her surprise first. "Heh! It's been a while, Ming. I see you're still getting yourself in trouble, huh?"

"Huh?" Ming echoed, before she realized Pinako must be talking about her arm. "Oh, yeah." She waggled her fingers. "The doctor said it'll get better in about a month. I've still got my left, so it's fine."

Edward, standing at her elbow, muttered something under his breath. Pinako regarded her with an unreadable look. "Yes, that's true." She seemed to shake herself. "Well, any friend of Ed and Al's is a friend of ours. You're welcome to stay here."

"Thank you very much," Ming said, not knowing what else to say.

Pinako nodded and headed back inside with a, "Help her get settled in, Winry! I need to make a phone call."

Ming was left with Edward and Winry.

The blonde had grown even more beautiful in the years Ming hadn't seen her. Her long hair cascaded down her back in a silky waterfall, and she was stocky and muscular. She had lost most of her baby fat, but traces of it remained to give her an innocent look; her chin still had the same stubborn set as it did four years ago. Her eyes were large, blue, and clear—but narrowed as they scrutinized Ming.

Edward's eyes darted between them. Finally, he said, "I'm heading in now. Al must've been worried." He brushed past Winry; she made no move to stop him, but he paused. "Winry…"

"What?" she said without taking her eyes off of Ming.

"…sorry for blowing up on you," he muttered, an embarrassed blush on his cheeks. "I was just in a bad mood—I shouldn't have taken it out on you. Sorry."

She jerked around, startled. He refused to look at her but stood waiting for her reply. Finally, she grinned and punched him in the shoulder. "Don't worry, I forgive you. It's not your fault you're an insensitive clod."

"Ow! Are you trying to kill me?! And who're you calling a clod, you unsexy—!"

"What'd you call me?!" But Winry seemed willing to let the insult go. She waved him off. "Hurry up and go in already. Yeah, Al's been worried sick about you."

He scowled but walked inside.

Ming was left with Winry.

She couldn't muster up anger at Edward for ditching her, though. If she could've, she would've walked away too. As it was, Winry had planted herself firmly in front of the doorway.

"…I'm Winry," she introduced herself. "I don't know if you remember me—"

"I remember you," Ming said. "You were that little girl who came running in before—"

They both stopped.

_Before everything. Before _that.

"—right. Um, well, I'm glad there's another girl in the house!" Winry said chirpily. "You'll be staying in my room, so come on, let me show you where it is and where you can put down your—" She paused again, seeing Ming's lack of luggage, and then carried on seamlessly "—head for tonight."

She whipped around and headed inside. After some hesitation, Ming followed her.

The Rockbell house was nice, airy, and smelled of beef stew and metal. Ming stopped a bit to stare at the bulletin board of photos as Winry ran ahead—Edward and Alphonse as children, Winry and her parents, a young Pinako—Ed, Al, and Ming?

"Mrs. Curtis took it when Ed and Al were in Dublith," Pinako said, wiping oil off her hands as she came out of her workroom. "She sent us a copy. It's been there for a while."

"…I see," Ming said quietly.

Winry reappeared near the stairs. "What're you doing? Hurry up!"

"Right, coming, sorry," Ming said quickly, hurrying after her.

Pinako watched the girls go, then picked up her pipe from a nearby drawer and drew in a deep breath from it. Exhaled. The smoke rose into the air, fading in the harsh noon light.

After a while, she walked into the kitchen. Her voice floated out of the room:

"Hello, operator? Can you connect me to Dublith? Thank you. …yes, I'm looking for Curtis Meats. That's right…hello there, Mason, this is Pinako Rockbell. How's business? …good, great. Listen, can you hand the phone over to Mrs. Curtis? I've got something to talk to her about…no, it's good news, actually…"

From upstairs came a surprised cry: "Ming! You're here!"

* * *

The rest of the day and the day after that were quiet but awkward. Ming spent most of the time talking with Edward and Alphonse, although necessity and small space dictated that she sometimes spoke with Pinako and Winry as well. The former treated Ming cordially, checking her broken arm in the morning and jokingly added that if the limb got torn off, she'd be happy to supply Ming with automail—for the appropriate price, of course. She also cooked beef stew for dinner the first night, after Ming mentioned that she'd liked it and hadn't had enough of it the last time she'd stayed with the Rockbells.

The latter watched Ming with a little more wariness. It was understandable; after all, she and Ming had only seen each other once, briefly, right before Ming ran off to stop the brothers from committing alchemy's worst taboo. Ming wasn't surprised that Winry was a little less than enthusiastic. The blonde was polite, however, and Ming was polite in return, musing that that was probably the best they could expect out of one another.

"So, Ming, where've you been all these years?"

The question was deceivingly casual, dropped innocently as Ming, Edward, and Alphonse lounged around under a tree not far from the Rockbell house.

She leaned back against the tree trunk. "I…travelled. Here and there. I went to East City a few times. Liore. Riviere. South City. Cameron. Central. Fiske. North City. Pendleton. Briggs."

"Wow, that's a lot of places," said Alphonse. "You really went all over the country." He hesitated, then added, "I'm surprised we didn't run into you. We've been traveling a lot, too, since Big Brother became a state alchemist."

"Yeah, well, I never stayed in one place for very long," Ming said. _Especially not when I heard you guys were coming._

"No kidding," Edward said. He picked up a piece of straw and started twirling it with his fingers with feigned carelessness. "What were you doing? Sightseeing?"

"Yeah," she agreed amiably. "Sightseeing."

He glared at her.

It was Alphonse who asked quietly, "…why did you run away? After…" He hesitated again.

It was still so hard to say it out loud. The event that had changed all their lives so quickly.

"I wanted to escape for a while," she said, staring at a cloud that rather resembled a lamb. "After…you know…that."

In a single instant that had seemed like eternity, all innocence and happiness had been blown away. A single instant of failure on all their parts.

"Besides, there was—" she paused. "Something I wanted to research."

"Something you wanted to research?" Alphonse echoed.

Ed's shoulders suddenly tensed. "What was it?"

"Not the Philosopher's Stone," Ming said immediately, and he relaxed slightly but looked disappointed at the same time. "Well," she amended, "sort of. But at the same time, not. I'm not interested in making a Philosopher's Stone."

"_I'm not interested in making a Philosopher's Stone."_

"_Y…You're not?"_

"_No. Something like that…I don't need it." She hesitated, then plunged in. "What I need to know is…how to destroy one."_

Suddenly, the silence had become awkward and tense rather than comfortable. Realizing her mistake, Ming added quickly, "But—I mean, if you guys want my help with it—I wouldn't mind—"

"No," Edward said suddenly.

"…huh?"

"No," he repeated, tossing the straw into the wind. "No, it's fine. I don't want you to get involved. This is something we need to do on our own, anyway."

"I see." Ming glanced at him cautiously. _Is that some kind of twisted masculine pride thing? _The next words flew out before she could stop them. "Even if I told you I knew how to make one?"

The tension was palpable.

"Ming…" Alphonse said softly.

"…do you?" Edward asked, and his eyes were like molten gold: desperate and angry and hopeful.

"…I don't," she finally said.

He rolled his eyes and the moment was broken. "Quit messing with us, then."

"I'm not," Ming said. "I really don't know how to make one. But I met someone who does."

_Sorry_, she thought. _But this is the only way you can learn the truth._

_The Truth._

The wind blew. It had been a warm afternoon, but suddenly, Ming felt a chill.

"Who?" Alphonse prompted; Edward was too busy gaping at her to speak.

"That doctor I told you about—the one who took me in," she said. "He used to be…a part of the military. He said he—produced them. Philosopher's Stones. For military use."

They both stared at her, then. Edward was the first to speak: "You're lying."

"Why would I lie to you?" she said.

He seemed to be struggling for words. Finally, he said, "Then the guy was tricking you. If he'd been working in the military—if the military knew how to make a Philosopher's Stone, don't you think we would've heard of it by now? Besides, there's no way you just _happened_ to step off the train and just _happened_ to meet a guy who knew how to make a Philosopher's Stone. The chances of that…"

…_are one to a million, but only if you don't know where to look_, Ming finished mentally. She stood. She was face-to-face with Edward, now, and she noticed that she was taller than he was. As expected.

"I understand. Well, whether you believe me or not, here," she said, pulling an envelope out of her pocket. "The information…the guy wrote it down for me. I don't need it, but you do."

He stared at it and then plucked it from her hands, ripped it open, and pulled out the piece of paper inside.

"'National Central Library, first branch, Tim Marcoh,'" he read aloud. He looked up from the paper. "Tim Marcoh? Why do I feel like I've heard that name before?"

"The Crystal Alchemist," Ming answered. "He deserted the army after the Ishballan Civil War."

"'Crystal'…" Alphonse said slowly, as if tasting the word on his tongue.

It was so simple, no one would have guessed—that the State Alchemist nickname had come from creating the stones of legend.

"What you do with that information…is up to you," Ming said. "Pinako said she called Izumi, so I'm probably going to Dublith tomorrow."

"Can I see that, Big Brother?" Alphonse said, and his brother obligingly handed the paper over. Alphonse scanned it before he glanced at Ming. "Why did you come back? Was it just to give this to us?"

"I guess," Ming said slowly. "To be honest, I wasn't sure if I'd find you guys here. It's not like Edward's automail needs to be fixed or anything, so I thought you'd be off on your next assignment by now."

"Um, Ming—that doctor," Alphonse said quickly as Edward looked away. "Like Brother said, if he was a member of the military…"

He trailed off, but Ming quickly grasped what he meant. "No, he said his assignments were top-secret. Classified. Anyone you talked with in the military probably didn't know what was going on."

Alphonse nodded, clearly relieved. Ming wondered who he was thinking of—Mustang? Hawkeye? Hughes? Had they even met Hughes yet?

"Well, I'm heading inside," Ming finally said, stretching a little. "Winry had some medical texts I wanted to look at…you guys should come in soon, too. Mrs. Rockbell's probably cooking dinner now."

She was a few feet down the road when Edward shouted, "Wait! Ming!"

"What?" she called back without turning around.

"I…that is," Edward took a deep breath. "I know you're keeping things from us. There's no way you met up with this Marcoh guy by accident, no matter what you say. That is—_if _his information is legitimate," he quickly amended. "And I have no idea what you've been doing these past few years—but—"

He seemed to struggle for words. Alphonse filled in, quietly, but the wind carried his words to her.

"—we still trust you," the younger brother said. "We're still your friends. So…thank you!"

She blinked at them.

"I," she began, and then, finding herself at loss for words, gave up. "…thanks," she quietly said instead.

"Also!" Edward said. "The Philosopher's Stone…it…" He took a deep breath. "It's our problem, and we're going to solve it! So don't—you don't have to do anything anymore, got it?"

She turned around in surprise. The two brothers looked at her, faces filled with determination.

"_Brother?"_

"_Yeah, Al?"_

"_If Ming comes back…do you want to ask for her help with the Stone?"_

"…_no."_

"…_I don't want to, either."_

"_Yeah. It absolutely…wasn't her fault. She already tried to warn us, so…"_

"_Dragging her into this again would be unfair."_

Those faces filled with determination—she kind of wanted to smack them.

"Don't be illogical," she said. "If it's your problem, then it's the problem of everyone else around you, too, whether you like it or not. Are you telling me that my research after all these years was pointless because I shouldn't be involved?"

She walked away without waiting for their answer.

_The world is bigger than you think, and the problem is bigger than you think. In the end, the ones who shouldn't have to be dragged into this…are you two._

* * *

Winry was waiting for her on the porch with her hands on her hips.

"Oh," Ming said, at loss for words again. "Hello."

"They were waiting for you this entire time," the blonde said without preamble.

Ming felt as though she had missed something. "Huh?"

"Those two—Ed and Al," Winry said, nodding in the direction of the tree. "I didn't get why they were still hanging around. Ed usually leaves right after his automail is fixed—and he didn't even have anything broken this time. But they're leaving tomorrow because you're leaving."

"That's not true," Ming said. "They can't hang around forever, either. I mean, they're military and everything, and they still have their own goals…"

But she trailed off as Winry shook her head. The other girl's hair glowed like pale gold in the evening sunlight.

"Even if that's true, they still stayed here," Winry said. "Edward was antsy this entire time, you know. Up until you got here. He wasn't happy at all, staying here—whether he wanted to go off and search for that Philosopher's Stone or whatever. But they still stayed."

Ming opened her mouth to explain that this was understandable, considering she had been missing for four years and the Elrics had just found her and probably didn't want her getting away so soon. Winry didn't stop for her.

"I don't know you very well," she said. "I'd…like to get to know you, too. I really do." She hesitated. "I mean…thanks. Edward said you're the one who told them to come here and visit, so…even though it bugs me a little, thank you."

She turned away and stalked inside.

Ming still felt as though she had missed something.

* * *

**Edited 8.14.13**


	9. VIII: home

**Quick note: OVER 400 ALERTS/FAVES. And only seven real chapters. My God, I have no idea how/when this happened. A huge thank you to everyone who's been supporting this story even through my infrequent updates!**

**Another note: The artwork for this is drawn by me. You can see a full version on my deviantart account, accessible on my profile. (It looks a lot cooler smaller, though.) There's also some other random art of Ming/Ed/etc., although it's from like…two years ago, so it's very old XD**

**Reply to reviews: A lot of you guys have asked if Ming and Edward would get together…honestly, I'm not sure yet. In my mind I have two paths for the story to go and I don't know which one I'm taking, so we'll just have to see. I'll confess that I originally wanted this to be EdxOC but now that I'm a **_**lot**_** older =shot for not updating in a year= I see things somewhat differently, so…yeah…**

**TL;DR: NO PAIRINGS FOR NOW.**

**But just out of curiosity, how many of you **_**would**_** be interested in an EdxMing pairing?**

**Some bad news: I'm going off to a six-week summer program, so I probably won't be updating during that time period. But uh, keep faith, because I'll definitely update in August!**

* * *

**S . I . N . H . E . A . R . T**

**VIII.**

_**home**_

"**There are many ways of moving forward, but only one way of standing still." – Franklin D. Roosevelt**

"**You cannot be a hero without being a coward."****– ****George Bernard Shaw**

* * *

The Resembool train station was just as Ming remembered it: small and mostly empty. Even the lady at the ticket booth and the man with the megaphone who announced train arrivals and departures were still the same, albeit a few years older.

"Well," she said, turning to face Edward and Alphonse, who'd come to see her off and wait for their own train, "I guess this is it." She managed a weak smile. "Come see me in Dublith some time?"

"And get killed by Master? No thanks." Edward made a face.

Alphonse shuddered. "I don't even want to think about it."

"She wouldn't kill you," Ming protested. "She'd just maim you a little."

They fell silent again. Ming shifted and winced when she accidentally moved her broken arm.

"Don't do anything stupid, okay?" she finally said. "You're not allowed to die."

She said it seriously. It was a serious thing to say, and it was an honest-to-Truth truth. Because if they died, everything would fall apart—all would be torn to pieces—the world would be shaken at its roots.

And so would she.

Edward looked chilled by her sudden soberness, but shrugged it off. "Who do you think we are?" he said. "We won't die before we get our bodies back. That's a promise."

"Still, you never know what might happen."

The train whistle blew. It was her cue to get off the stage.

"I'm off," she said reluctantly. "One last thing, though—when you go to Central, remember to look for the 'truth behind the truth.'"

Alphonse looked about as puzzled as a suit of armor could get. "The 'truth behind the truth'? What does that mean?"

Without answering his question, she gave them a brief wave goodbye, and walked onto the train.

Half an hour later, they were on another train, traveling as fast as she was—but away from her. Two trains, traveling in different directions. Two groups of people, traveling towards different goals.

Yet in the end, they would probably be standing next to each other, having been walking side-by-side all along.

* * *

"So they're gone," said Pinako, puffing on her pipe calmly.

Winry did not reply. She was working her way through an automail arm. This one was for a neighbor of theirs, Mr. Fredric—one of their few customers who had actually taken the step from prosthetic to automail.

Her grandmother, watching her, sighed.

"Hey, Winry!"

The blonde girl looked up, confused, and peered out the window. Her face cleared when she saw the boy standing outside. "Oh, Jack! Hi! What're you doing here?"

Jack Walden, a good-natured boy of fifteen, grinned. His brown hair was short-cropped but still managed to be perpetually messy; this, combined with his freckles, blue eyes, and the baby fat that still lined his face, gave him a little-boy look that made the elderly women of Resembool dote on him. He lived three farms away from the Rockbells—quite a distance, which was why Winry was surprised that he had walked all that way to visit.

"I heard from Mr. Laus—Ed and Al were here, weren't they?" he called. "Thought I'd come to see them. Did I miss them?"

"Yeah, you did," Winry said, stiffening slightly. "They just left for Central."

Jack looked faintly disappointed. "Ah, well. Let me know if they come back, will you?"

"Sure thing," said Winry, though she knew full well she wouldn't. There were many people like Jack in Resembool—children, teenagers and adults, who hadn't been particularly close to the Elrics but dropped in now and then to get chummy with their town's resident celebrities. They annoyed the heck out of Edward, embarrassed Alphonse, and—frankly—didn't make Pinako and Winry very happy either.

Which was why Winry was startled when her grandmother poked her head out the window and called, "Jack!"

The brunet stopped on his way down the road and turned around. "What is it, Mrs. Rockbell?" he called back.

"They found her!"

Jack froze. Winry was startled by the myriad of expressions she could see on the boy's face despite the distance between them: hope, joy and excitement warred frantically with fear and anxiety.

"Did…did they really?" he said, his voice shaking slightly. When Pinako nodded, his face split into the brightest smile Winry had ever seen him wear. "Where is she?"

"She left for Dublith already," Pinako said, and Winry realized, belatedly, that they must be talking about Ming. When Jack's face fell, the old woman added, "I'm sure she'll be back."

Jack was muttering something they were too far away to make out. Finally, he raised his voice again and said, "Call me if she comes back, will you?"

"Sure thing," Pinako repeated, only there was a kind smile on her face and she actually sounded like she meant it.

Jack fairly bounced down the road, and Winry wondered aloud what exactly his connection to Ming was—why Pinako would be willing to find her for him, and why he was so eager to see her.

"She saved his life," was all Pinako would say on the matter.

Then they lapsed back into silence. Winry fiddled away with mechanical parts, and by the next day she had forgotten about the entire incident.

* * *

In sharp contrast with Resembool station, Dublith's train station was bustling and noisy. To Ming, though, it was still the same as it had been four years ago. The coffee-stained counters were still the same; and the wooden platform, and that one pillar where someone had written _JUDY + RICK _with a fountain pen. The people were still the same—they had hair and eyes of all different colors, but most of them were tanned by the sun, with a certain stockiness and robustness that was characteristic of southern Amestris.

Pinako had said that someone would be there to pick her up. She looked around, trying not to get jostled by the crowd.

He was pretty easy to spot.

"…Sig?"

The giant turned around when she called his name. He squinted at her, as though trying to place something, before his face lit up—well, as compared to his usual intimidating grimness. "Ming?"

She tried to answer in the affirmative, but there seemed to be something stuck in her throat. Instead, she could only nod at the man who had taken care of her for three years.

His expression darkened again. His hand came down on her like a righteous fist, and she flinched, waiting for the inevitable blow.

Instead, something patted her on the head.

It nearly toppled her over.

"…you've grown taller," Sig rumbled at last. "You're at least five feet now."

Strange, there was something in her eye, too. Maybe it was the southern dust; it was hot and dry up here, after all.

She nodded and tried to smile, but was afraid that it came out as more of a grimace as the tears started to drip down her face.

"Sig…I…" she began, and then trailed off, unable to find the words.

People like Izumi and Edward she could deal with—they would have only righteous anger, against which she could somewhat arm herself. Alphonse had been rather silent on the whole ordeal, and very quickly forgiving. She'd taken that forgiveness for granted. But Sig Curtis, with whom she'd lived with for three years, and who during that time had never scolded her, never acted angry or disappointed, had only ever been quietly understanding, like a…

He patted her on the head again, more gently this time. "Welcome back."

"I…" Her throat seized up again. She cleared it uncomfortably. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm back."

Sig took her wrist, leading her out of the station and into the sunlight. She didn't protest at the manhandling, and noticed only dimly that they weren't being bothered by the crowd of people—perhaps because they were avoiding the huge man in front of her. His eyes lit down on her broken arm as they walked down the street.

"You're injured," he stated. It wasn't a question, but she felt compelled to answer it anyway.

Upon opening her mouth to offer an excuse, she instead found herself telling him the entire story. He listened without making any comments, except at the very end, when he reached down and ruffled her hair.

"It's good that you're safe," he said quietly.

She looked down, suddenly embarrassed and happy and ashamed all at once.

Dublith was just as she remembered it, as well. She'd avoided the city throughout all her travels except when she had to change trains to get to a different destination, but now, as she walked with Sig, it was as though she'd never left at all. There were stores and shops everywhere, and people everywhere, and cars driving up and down the busy lanes. The streets were filled with the smells of dust and cooking and motor oil.

They had to hail a taxi—the butcher shop was a little further from the station than a walkable distance.

When Ming saw the building again, something stuttered to a stop inside her.

A sign, capitals and white and standing tall and proud, wood and paint and crisp. BUTCHER.

A door. Its hinges were in need of oiling again.

Sig knocked quietly.

"Izumi," he called. "Ming's back."

He said it so simply. Like she'd only gone out for groceries, or to retrieve the mail, or to check out new library books—all of which she must've done a thousand times, all those years ago.

There was a moment of silence.

Then the door flew open and Ming was kicked across the street.

She twisted just in time to avoid landing on her broken arm—and ended up landing on her face instead. _Ow_, she thought vaguely. _Why do I have a sense of déjà vu?_ She raised her head slowly, spitting out the dust, and her eyes were met with a pair of sandal-clad feet—a white dress—a red-caduceus-tattooed collarbone—a jaw with a twitching vein—pursed lips—narrowed black eyes.

Her heart stopped again.

Whether it was out of happiness or fear, she couldn't tell.

"…long time no see?" Ming offered weakly.

Izumi Curtis's response was to crack her knuckles. "_You_," the older woman said, glaring down at Ming menacingly, "are in _big trouble_, young lady."

* * *

_**Central**_

"Hurry up, Al!"

"Brother, there's no need to rush—"

"Whatever, just hurry up!"

Alphonse sighed as he got off the platform. Ed had been in a good mood all through the train ride, even after seeing Ming off; the prospect of finally, finally attaining what they'd been searching for for so long seemed to have energized his brother, to the point where he had lost some of his common sense.

"Yahoo! We're here, Central!"

Yet Al couldn't help but smile at seeing his brother act so carefree.

"Excuse me, sir! Are you the Fullmetal Alchemist?"

Al blinked at suddenly finding himself being confronted by two soldiers, a man and a woman, in blue uniform. "Um—huh?"

"I'm Second Lieutenant Maria Ross! It's an honor to meet you, sir!" The woman saluted.

Her partner quickly followed suit. "I'm Sergeant Denny Brosh! Your outfit matches your name, sir! It's very impressive!"

"Ah, no, I, that is—" Al sweatdropped and hurriedly pointed over to Ed, whose eye was twitching rapidly. "I'm not the Fullmetal Alchemist—that's him."

"Huh?" The two soldiers turned around.

"…the small boy?" Denny Brosh said guilelessly.

Al quickly ran over to hold his brother back as he began to rant and rave about being _NOT SHORT, STILL GROWING, AND HE WASN'T A PIPSQUEAK DAMMIT_— The two soldiers hastily corrected their mistake.

"We're so very sorry!"

"Not short! I didn't say short, I meant, um, fun-sized!"

Finally, Edward calmed down and folded his arms. "Why the hell are you here?"

The two exchanged glances, apparently startled by Ed's language. It was the woman—Second Lieutenant Ross—who stepped forward. "Orders from East Headquarters, sir. Scar has yet to be apprehended, and until the situation settles down, we've been assigned as your escorts."

"_Escorts?_" Edward repeated with disbelief.

"Yes, sir. We're confident in our abilities, so please be at ease, sir," said Major Brosh reassuringly.

"Oh, a car has already been prepared for you, sir," Ross said. "Allow me to lead the way."

In the car, Ed struggled with his frustration before finally heaving a sigh. "Alright, whatever. I guess we can't do anything about it."

"You're supposed to say 'thank you,' Big Brother," Al rebuked gently. The two soldiers started at this.

"'Big Brother'?!"

"You mean this armored man is your _younger_ brother?!"

Alphonse nodded confirmation. Major Brosh, unable to restrain his curiosity, asked, "But why are you wearing that suit of armor…?"

The brothers exchanged swift, nervous glances.

"It's a hobby," they lied simultaneously.

The two soldiers began whispering together. Loudly.

"A hobby?! What kind of hobby is that, Second Lieutenant?!"

"I don't know, Major! Who _are _these kids?!"

"AHHH! I CAN SEE THE LIBRARY! I CAN SEE IT!" Edward shouted loudly, trying to distract them from their musing. Thankfully, it worked.

"Ah, that's the National Central Library," said Second Lieutenant Ross. "It boasts the greatest collection of books in Amestris. There are so many books that it's said that even if you repeated your life a hundred times, you wouldn't be able to finish reading all of them."

"Its first branch actually lies to the west," Major Brosh added, as the car drove on without stopping. "It's used to store many research files, past records, and name registries. I have no doubt that you'll find what you're looking for there, sir."

Al didn't have to look to see his brother's answering grin.

* * *

_**Dublith**_

"And?" Izumi folded her arms. "What do you have to say for yourself, young lady?"

Ming stood up shakily. After shouting at her for almost half an hour—_"What the hell were you thinking?! Do you know how worried we've been?! Are you trying to make me die at an early age?! You've taken years off my life, you ungrateful little brat!"_—Izumi had demanded that they spar, so she could "test to see if Ming had neglected her training," though Ming suspected that the older woman secretly just wanted to beat her up.

The resulting fight had been rather brutal. With only one arm, and not much practice behind her, Ming hadn't stood a chance. She winced as she gingerly felt at her bruises—those were going to last for a while.

"I was…traveling," she answered hesitantly. Immediately, Izumi smacked her over the head.

"Not a good enough answer!" the woman said. "'Traveling,' was it? The great adventurer, are we?" Her words were loaded with sarcasm. "The great adventurer who didn't have time to phone or send a letter once in a while to let us know she wasn't dying in a ditch somewhere?"

"I…"

"I don't want excuses, I want an explanation," Izumi snapped. "And it better be a good one."

Ming opened her mouth again, and then closed it. "I…don't really have one," she admitted tiredly. She'd just been scolded, beat up, and then beat up some more. She barely had enough energy left to think—all she wanted to do was collapse onto a bed and sleep for the rest of eternity. "I think it just…"

It had just never crossed her mind. No, that wasn't really true, either. She had sat down, once, at the desk of a dirty hotel room, intent on writing a letter. She'd brought out the pen and paper and sat there with her hand poised. And then…

…and then, nothing had happened. Nothing had come to mind. What would she say, what _could_ she say? Apologies rang false in her head when they weren't in person. She couldn't fully describe what she had been doing anyway. _Dear Izumi, Visited a battlefield at Riviere today. The burned grass was lovely. Wish you were here, Ming._

Another time, she had stood in a train station, holding a phone to her ear. She'd dialed. Heard the tone. Spoken to the operator.

"_Hello, this is Curtis's Meats. How can I help you?_"

It had been Mason answering the phone, and her mouth had suddenly gone dry. She'd slammed the phone back into the receiver, heart pounding.

What should she have said?

What could she have said?

More than anything, she had been…

"I couldn't face you," she finally admitted quietly. "I…failed you. It was—" hard to admit after all this time, but "—easier to run away."

…ashamed.

Her mouth was suddenly dry again.

"I'm sorry," she said haltingly. "I…didn't mean to worry you. I was…only thinking about myself."

"I couldn't forgive myself," she said. "For failing. And I…didn't know if you could forgive me, either. I didn't want to know. So I…"

She traveled. Farther than the moon and farther than the sun because time is the longest distance away from anything.

"…I'm sorry."

It was a weak apology. Cheap words, offered in replacement of broken hearts and lost years. Izumi lifted a hand; Ming closed her eyes and waited for the coming blow.

Her hair was ruffled.

She felt a sense of déjà vu.

"Stupid girl," Izumi said lowly. Her voice was suspiciously hoarse. "There's nothing to forgive you for."

Ming looked up in surprise and was immediately hit over the head.

"—did you really think I was going to say that?" the older woman shouted, a vein pulsing in her temple. "I don't recall raising such a fool! Or a coward who would run away from her problems instead of facing them head-on!" She folded her arms again, still glaring even as Ming cradled her head. "You, young lady, are grounded."

…grounded?

Ming wanted to laugh. The word sounded so normal. It was an incredibly light sentence, too, given everything Ming had done. And yet Ming was filled with the urge to…protest. And whine. Like a child.

"For how long?" she couldn't help asking, facetiously.

"Until I say so!" Izumi snapped. She whirled around and started heading inside. "Come on."

"…uh?" said Ming intelligently.

"It's dinnertime. Are you going to be late for a meal on your first day home after four years?"

Ming's ears were ringing, but she didn't think it was from the blow to her head.

_Home._

The crisp white paint—the neatly cut wood—the capitalized sign—the door whose hinges needed oiling yet again—the smell of animal blood and meat and Izumi's cooking.

_Home._

She got to her feet.

"Um, Izumi!"

The older woman turned in the doorway. "What?"

"I'm…" Ming took a deep breath. "I'm home."

At that moment, was there the tiniest hint of a pause?

"Well, it's about time," said Izumi. The scowl was still etched on her face, but not as deeply, and had her lips tilted up just now? "Go wash up. You can tell me all about what you've been doing over the chicken."

* * *

_**East City headquarters**_

"Colonel Mustang."

The black-haired man stopped short. "Ah. Well, well, if it isn't General Hakuro." He smiled congenially. "How is your injury?"

The general wasted no time on pleasantries. "It won't prevent me from working," he said shortly. "The matter of Scar is more important than that. I want to know how a single man has caused this much chaos, and how, despite the large number of men mobilized, he has yet to be apprehended."

It was a direct jab at Mustang's capabilities as a colonel, and they both knew it. Mustang didn't bat an eyelash. "We are continuing the search with every available resource at hand. If you gave us some more time—"

"I want results, not words," Hakuro said coldly. "At this rate, we'll end up having to issue a warning to the entire east area."

Mustang bowed his head in acknowledgement, and didn't raise it until Hakuro went on his way.

"I _thought _it was rare for that old man to come out from the New Optain Branch," said Havoc suddenly, making Mustang start as he appeared from around the corner. "Turns out he came here just to bitch at you." The blond man had a bundle of documents under one arm and a smirk on his face.

"I, too, want to finish up this case," Mustang said calmly as they walked back to his office. "It's best to nip this in the bud in case it becomes a larger threat in the future."

Hawkeye joined them on the way. "The map you requested, sir," she said quietly, indicating the roll of paper she was holding.

"Thank you, Lieutenant," he said. "Like I was telling Havoc here, finding Scar may very well be instrumental to our plans for the future."

A vision flashed before his mind's eye: a black-haired girl with eyes like black holes, dark and desperate and fearful and all-seeing.

"_Scar. The killer. He's an Ishballan, a killer who targets State Alchemists—and we have to find him. He knows how to stop it all."_

"I believe it would be best if you were to refrain from saying anything inappropriate, sir," Hawkeye said calmly.

Havoc lit a cigarette.

Mustang stared out his window.

It was a race against time—and he would win it, or die trying.

* * *

**Edited 8.14.13**


	10. IX: cast

**Note: Short update is…late and EXTREMELY short. I'm sorry, I just have zero inspiration at the moment . But take this as it is, I suppose.**

**Also school starts tomorrow. Not fun.**

* * *

**S . I . N . H . E . A . R . T**

**IX.**

_**cast**_

"**The world is a stage, but the play is badly cast." Oscar Wilde**

* * *

_**Hmm. There doesn't seem to be any activity coming from the side of those brothers. The other potential sacrifice is running around trying to climb his way up. **_

_**But that girl… I should send Envy to take a look at her. She hasn't done much, but she seems familiar somehow. Perhaps I'm looking too closely at things, but it wouldn't hurt to be cautious.**_

**These humans are deceitful creatures, after all.**

_**Meanwhile, though…**_

"_**An Ishballan stinking of blood is getting close. Gluttony."**_

"_**Yes. Can I eat him?"**_

"…_**don't leave one strand of hair."**_

_**A widening grin.**_

* * *

Scar was uneasy. Although he walked beneath a silent bridge with nothing but—he whipped around with narrowed eyes, and then relaxed infinitesimally—rats for company, it was hard to shake off the feeling of unease. He should have been at home in the darkness—it was where he'd been living ever since he decided to take this path of revenge, after all—without its soldiers and prying eyes, and yet, absurdly, he felt safer in the daylight. At least he could see his enemies coming, then, just as they could see him.

And a part of him, deep down, recognized that there was something lurking in the darkness…waiting for him to fall into its abyss.

Scar shook his head. Just because he was devoted to Ishvalla didn't mean he had to fall prey to superstition and stupidity.

But still, that girl.

The shock that had been in her eyes. And that recognition, almost like she had seen him before… Perhaps it was because it had been a long time since he'd been able to look anyone other than his victims in the eye, but he now felt yet another absurd fear, as if that girl knew something no one else alive knew.

Suddenly, the rat from before squeaked. He tensed. Footsteps were approaching behind him.

It was time for another battle, it seemed.

_**In the darkness…a hungry leer gleamed.**_

* * *

Ed read the notes over and over again—his and Marcoh's—as if rereading them would change them, as if they might morph into something better before his disbelieving eyes.

They'd worked endlessly after finding Marcoh's "recipes" in the first branch of the National Central Library, trying to decipher Marcoh's code, fueled by the excitement of finally having what they'd searched for for so long right beneath their fingertips. They'd forgone sleep—Ed having to bear with Al's protests—and sometimes even food in their efforts.

And yet.

In his stupor, Ed vaguely imagined that he could hear Truth laughing at him in the back of his head. _Is this what you set us up for? _He wanted to scream, he wanted to rage, he wanted to sob. _Is this what the answer was all along?_

It was too cruel.

But the answer was right in front of him.

"…Brother, go eat breakfast," Al said quietly.

"I'm not hungry," was the answer. And it was the truth. Who could be hungry at a time like this? "I'm just…"

…_tired_ went unsaid.

The brothers fell silent. After a while, Ed spoke again.

"It's like…just when I start to think that it's within my reach, it runs away."

Almost like Ming, he realized. But the thought of the person who had led them to this was too bitter to swallow at the moment, so he pushed it away.

"And finally, when I feel like I actually got hold of it, I've been knocked down by what I caught."

He laughed humorlessly, covering his eyes with his metal arm—the thing that represented everything they had ever wanted, and everything they had ever lost. "Looks like God really hates people who break his rules."

Al didn't say anything.

What was there left to say?

"…hey, Al?" Ed said quietly. "There's something I always wanted to tell you, but…I was too scared to say it…"

"What is it?" Al said. In another situation his tone might've been curious and encouraging, but here it fell flat. It was hard to muster up any positive emotion after the shock they'd received, the despair they'd just been force-fed.

Regardless, Ed took a deep breath and prepared himself. "Do you—"

"Wa…please wait! They're still resting!"

"ELRIC BROTHERS, ARE YOU INSIDE?! IT IS I! CAN YOU OPEN THE DOOR?!"

The voice was so loud the two brothers literally jumped out of their seats. "What should we do?!" Al said, terrified.

"Ignore him, ignore him!" Ed said frantically. "The door's locked and he'll eventually go away!"

The man who instigated such fear in them was none other than the Central Amestrian military's infamous musclebound Major Armstrong. Apparently, it was he who Mustang had contacted regarding Ed and Al's security during their stay in Central—and it was he who the Elric brothers had been forced to meet after their first day of research.

They inwardly shuddered at the memory of that day. The mustache, the sparkles, he "manly" tears, the sparkles, the insane megaphonic voice, the sparkles the muscles, the sparkles, and oh _God_, the _sparkles…!_

"**I HAVE COME, EDWARD ELRIC!"**

Was it bad that they could _hear_ the bolded and capitalized letters in that voice? Ed and Al stared at the looming Major, transfixed in their horror. _He…he _broke _the door!_

Behind him stood a traumatized-looking Lieutenant Ross and Sergeant Ross; Ed could immediately deduce what had happened from their terrified faces, and glared at them for giving him and Al away. The Major began ranting loudly, but his words completely flew over Ed's head, except for one sentence.

"Sometimes the truth can be cruel."

Yes, it can, was the silent answer in Ed's head. Then his thoughts ground to a halt.

The truth?

_The truth…_

"The truth," he said aloud. The words had a ring of finality to them, but also a ring of familiarity…

"What's wrong, brother?" Al said.

"Do you remember what Ming said?" Ed said quickly.

"Huh?"

"_One last thing, though—when you go to Central, remember to look for the 'truth behind the truth.'"_

"The truth behind the truth…"

The look in her eyes. As if she had been trying to tell him something, something important, something she couldn't say but he couldn't miss.

"I get it," he said suddenly. "There's still something. Something important." _And Ming wanted me to find out what it is._

For a moment, he felt anger. If she had known something like this would come up, why hadn't she just told them in the first place? Why put them through despair? Through all this frustration? But Ming wasn't there to answer those questions, so they would just have to wait.

In the meantime, he had another question to answer.

"We have to find out more," he said to Al—and to the other soldiers in the room, who were listening to him raptly. "Maybe if we look at the military research institutes—like the one where Marcoh worked—are there any maps of Central?"

Maria Ross snapped to it. "I'll find you one right away," she said quickly, heading out the room. Then she paused and turned to eye them all with a critical eye.

"Don't get into any trouble before I come back," she warned.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Ed grumbled half-heartedly as she left.

The men stood in silence for a while. Finally, Armstrong said, with uncharacteristic quietness, "Dr. Tim Marcoh is the one from whom you obtained this research?'

"Huh?" Al said, when Ed didn't reply. "Um! Er, yes."

They couldn't mention Ming. Or rather, they _wouldn't_ mention her, wouldn't get her more deeply involved than she already was.

"I see," Armstrong said. Then, abruptly, "He was a colleague of mine during the Ishballan War."

The name brought distant memories to Edward's mind. _Two smiling faces…a kind woman and a warmhearted man…Winry's tears._

"A fellow State Alchemist," the major continued, clenching a fist. "To think that he was involved in such nefarious work…I'm ashamed."

Ed did not reply, and they lapsed back into silence. To him, to be a State Alchemist—a dog of the military—was already an act of shame, a principle drilled into his head for years by Pinako and Izumi. But he'd given up pride, given up shame, for the sake of his goal. For his and Al's bodies. For that which now seemed so close and so far at the same time…

Five minutes later, they were all standing around the table, a map of Central spread out before them.

"There are currently four locations within Central that are alchemic research institutes for the military," Major Armstrong—as the one who had been in the military the longest, and held the highest rank, he was also the most knowledgeable—said, with uncharacteristic seriousness.

Or, Ed absent-mindedly mused, it wasn't uncharacteristic at all. It was just uncharacteristic that everyone else took him seriously.

"Among those four is the one that Dr. Marcoh worked for, the third research institute," he went on, pointing. "This one is the most suspicious."

Edward frowned. "Yeah…I passed through all of them after I got my State Alchemist license. This one didn't look like it was doing research that was all that important, though." _It doesn't look like anything we should be looking for...huh? _"Huh?"

Something caught his attention.

"What's that? This building, right here." He pointed.

"Oh, that's…" Ross flipped through a reference volume. "Previously that building used to be the fifth research institute. It is currently unused, though. Due to the danger of structural collapse, entrance is prohibited."

Edward's eyes narrowed. "It's this one."

"Huh?" Sergeant Brosh said. "Why?"

"There's a prison next to it," Ed said, quietly.

_A perfect source of humans…no. _Materials_…for a Philosopher's Stone._

* * *

Mustang surveyed the area before him critically. Parts of the buildings and road were collapsed; some of what lay in front of him was little more than dust, brick, and rubble. It must've been a fight; there was no other explanation, for from what he had seen, Scar was not the type of terrorist that committed random acts of destruction to make a point.

He was a terrorist whose acts of destruction _were_ his point—far more dangerous.

"Well?" he said, turning away from the scene of ruin. "What do you think?"

Hawkeye glanced up from where she had been examining the torn and bloody jacket they'd found caught on a stick in the water. "It's definitely what Scar was wearing."

Mustang felt something swoop in his stomach. Judging from the condition of the clothing, Scar was either dead, or severely injured. Either way, their plans were caught in a snag. "Is there a corpse?" he asked.

Havoc, who had been left in charge of the investigation, shook his head negative as he lit up a cigarette. "Not so far. We're still searching, but it's going to take weeks to go through everything under the rubble."

"Regardless, with the amount of blood lost, he probably isn't in good shape," Hawkeye murmured.

Mustang frowned. "Don't let your guard down until you find his dead body," he said. _Don't give up hope until it's beyond all reason._

He ordered Havoc to continue clearing away the rubble, using the excuse of not being able to go on a date until he could see Scar's corpse as a reason to force the men to work nonstop without breaks. In reality, though, he was worried for different reasons. From what that girl had said, the Ishballan would play a critical role in the future; if she had been telling the truth, then it was important that they locate and negotiate with him as quickly as possible.

…but if she had been lying, then they could have a dangerous terrorist running amok.

* * *

"Has anything good happened recently?"

Izumi looked up with a start. "What?"

The doctor finished scribbling down his report and set the clipboard aside, smiling at her. "Although I can tell that you've been exerting yourself for the past few days, you seem to be doing better. Things like this are usually affected by a patient's mentality."

"Ah…" Izumi hesitated.

Then she smiled back.

"Yes, actually. My daughter came home a few days ago."

* * *

Unfortunately, when Izumi said Ming was grounded, she really meant _grounded_. Ming was barely allowed to leave the house, except to do chores like shopping and retrieving the mail—and spar with Izumi, of course, but the older woman thankfully took Ming's broken arm into account and kept those spars few and light. Ming couldn't complain—the punishment was still light compared to what she knew Izumi could still dish out—but she mentally admitted that it was hard to get used to staying in one house after traveling from place to place for so long. So although she didn't say anything, she did take the time to enjoy the rare occasions she went out.

"Ah, Ming! Getting groceries for Izumi again?"

She smiled and nodded at the flower shop owner, an old woman currently bent over her zinnias. "Yes, ma'am."

"She certainly knows how to work you, don't she?" said her husband, emerging from inside the store. He wiped his hands clean of soil as he spoke. "Well, let us know if you need anything from here."

"Yes, sir. Thank you."

It amazed Ming that the residents around the Curtis's shop still remembered her—the quiet, unassuming little girl from over four years ago. It amazed her even more how easily they accepted her back into the fold of Dublith's social curtain—then again, Dublith was a much larger town than Resembool, which was probably more apt to gossip and ostracize.

"Thank you for your purchase and come again. Have a good day."

"Thank you," Ming said lamely in the face of the stall owner's cheeriness, accepting the bags of vegetables.

It had been easy, too easy even, to fall back into the rhythm of daily life in the shop once she'd returned. Wake up in the morning. Make breakfast. Eat. Help with the shop. Eat lunch. Head out for chores. Come back to help with the shop. Help cook dinner. Eat dinner. Dishes. Sleep. She hadn't even lost her carving or cashier skills, much to Izumi's surprise and Mason's delight—

Ming hadn't been surprised. It wasn't often that she forgot anything.

—and neither Izumi nor Sig tried to breach the elephant sitting in the room: what Ming had been doing for the past few years. Ming had tried to explain—as vaguely as possible, of course—during dinner on that first night home.

Home. Such a strange word.

She'd given them the same excuses she'd given the Elrics: she was traveling, she visited places all over Amestris, she went sightseeing, she—

"You didn't leave the country?" Izumi had said.

Ming's words had stuttered to a halt. Slowly, she had picked them back up and said, "I didn't have enough money for that."

And then the conversation had gone of course to _where _Ming had gotten her money over the years—to which the answer had been odd jobs and fixing things with alchemy—but Ming hadn't missed the way Izumi's eyes had dimmed, or Sig's frown had deepened. Her answer had been reasonable and even partially honest. Just not wholly honest, and all of them knew it.

Of course she couldn't have left Amestris; that was where all the trouble was.

The truth, though. Could she tell them? Would she tell them? It wasn't just that the land they lived on was nothing more than a chalkboard for something sick and twisted and greater—that the art they practiced was something much more sinister than it seemed—that the children they had accepted into their fold were embroiled in something dangerous beyond their imagination.

It was that the little girl they had adopted so long ago hadn't been a little girl at all…

Ming ruthlessly slammed the lid down on those thoughts as she walked down the street. Izumi was standing at the door, chatting animatedly with a customer.

"And our beef was brought in from local farms—there's one only about two hours away from here—" she glanced up and caught Ming's eye. "Oh, Ming. Welcome back."

"I'm back," she said, the routine laughably domestic.

It had been far too easy to fall back into the rhythm of daily life. Here, under the hot southern sun, it felt almost as if time had stopped. But it hadn't, and the world (Ed and Al, the military, the Homunculi, _Father_) was still moving on around them, streams of icy reality that slowed to pool in this warm little dell of quietude. She'd come back because Ed had told her to, because she had wanted to confront her guilt. Because she had known once she did so, she could move on and plunge herself back in the river where death and sin and conspiracy reigned.

And Izumi had welcomed her. Accepted her. Kept her.

Something cold curled in Ming's gut.

_A few more days_, she thought.

_A few more days…and I have to move._

* * *

"If I may ask…what exactly are you doing, sir?"

Mustang looked up briefly from the records he was going through. "Ah, Lieutenant," he greeted. She raised an eyebrow, giving him a wry look.

He couldn't blame her for it, either. His usually immaculate desk was a mess, buried under a pile of papers. "There's something I'm looking for," he said by way of explanation.

"…if you are searching for Scar, sir, surely the work can be delegated to Second Lieutenant Havoc," Hawkeye said quietly, placing the other records he had asked for on the one area of the desk that had been left bare. "It is his task at the moment, after all—"

"Yeah, I know," Mustang said, flapping a hand. "That's not what I'm doing here, though."

She frowned at him. He waited. She frowned deeper.

"They're records on Ming Curtis," he caved.

Hawkeye's expression cleared. She was certainly a scary woman when she wanted to be. "I see. Have you found anything worth noting, sir?"

"Quite a bit, actually," he said. Picking up the paper closest to him, he scanned it. "These records go in reverse chronological order. She was first listed as a missing person four years ago in Resembool. Several military personnel searched for her in the area but were unsuccessful; no one even saw her board a train."

"As I recall, the Elrics were part of that search, sir," Hawkeye said quietly.

Mustang set down that paper and folded his hands, resting his chin on them. "That's right." He closed his eyes. "Fullmetal begged to be put on the case. Out of all the personnel, they searched the hardest, and after two months without results, they fought to keep the case open, even though we had no proof that she was even alive."

"There was no evidence of death either," Hawkeye pointed out.

"Yes, and now she's finally been unlisted; the case is closed," he said. Opening his eyes again, he pointed at a second sheet of paper—a map. "In the past four years there were several personnel reports of girls matching her description, but they're scattered all across the country, and none of them were confirmed. Unfortunately, our system for locating missing citizens is much less efficient than our system for locating missing criminals," he added under his breath.

"But we knew all that already, sir."

"We did, actually, which is why I called up South Headquarters and asked for _their _records," Mustang said, holding up another stack of information. "And things get a lot more interesting _before_ she runs away."

Hawkeye waited as he shuffled through them.

"Here," he finally said. "This one. Curtis isn't the Curtises' biological daughter—she was adopted eight years ago, at the age of six. The official adoption papers were registered in…" He paused. "Here, in East City."

"An orphan, sir? Or a relative?"

"That's the interesting part." His voice dropped, but hardened. "Her previous circumstances are extremely vague; there's a doctor's signature here on her medical record affirming that she has retrograde amnesia. It also says she had multiple injuries, including fractured ribs."

Hawkeye's eyes grew sharp. Anything or anyone that would abuse a six-year-old child deserved more than a few gunshots in her book.

"I don't want to jump to conclusions," Mustang said as he set down the papers, "but amnesia doesn't come out of the blue, and it sounds like hers was definitely induced by trauma of some kind. The question is who—or what." He closed his eyes again. "It's also very interesting that we don't have a complete history of her past; we have no idea who she was, or where she came from."

"With all due respect, sir, none of that might matter if she doesn't remember it," Hawkeye pointed out. When he stayed silent, she frowned. "You think she does."

"I think she's hiding a lot more than she lets on, and some of that may be about her origins," he said ambivalently. "Unfortunately, my search only goes so far. Hughes works in investigations, so I was thinking of asking him to help me…well. Investigate."

For a moment he felt a flicker of guilt, but brushed it aside. The girl may not have been expecting to be researched in such a way, but she was too trusting, too naïve. She was in an adults' world, now, and adults learned and knew everything about their allies…and potential enemies.

_Ming Curtis…I'll pin you down and solve all the mysteries around you. Then we'll see if you're really an altruist...or just a liar and a fool._

* * *

_**These people…the prince, searching for his other half. The general, slowly moving his troops. The avenger, fighting for his life. The darkness, seeking to destroy. The brothers, uncovering the truth. **_

_**And the truthspeaker, suspended in time.**_

_**Together, they begin to move.**_

* * *

**Edited 8.13.13**


	11. X: motion

**A/N: I'M ALIVE!**

_**IMPORTANT NOTE:**_

**I've edited the previous chapters of this fic; most of them haven't been changed much except for several dialogue heavy scenes, including:**

**-Ming's conversation with Ed and Al in Chapter 4**

**-Ming's conversation with Mustang in Chapter 6**

**-Mustang's conversation with Hawkeye in Chapter 9**

**I haven't changed any really major plot points, but given that I haven't updated in nearly a year, it might be a good idea to reread this whole thing anyway, yeah? #shot**

**By the way, THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR YOUR SUPPORT. I can't believe this story kept getting recognition despite the notorious lack of updates…over 300 reviews, AND favorites, AND follows? Plus, I just realized that it's featured in 9 communities, and it's made it to the first freaking page of the FMA archive when ordered by follows—holy shit! You're amazing, and I love you all.**

**I also wanted to give a shout out to the youtaite shadowlink4321 aka Daniel Alvarez, whose beautiful English covers of FMA opening/ending songs are currently my writing music. Personally, I especially love his versions of "Melissa" (Porno Graffiti, from the 2003 anime) and "Golden Time Lover" (Sukima Switch, from 2009), so definitely check those out when you guys get the chance.**

**Okay! You guys have waited for this update long enough, so without further ado, I present to you…**

* * *

**S . I . N . H . E . A . R . T**

**X.**

_**motion**_

** "Calculation never made a hero." John Henry Newman **

* * *

**two weeks earlier…**

"Let me see her!"

"I can't do that, Fullmetal."

"Are you serious?" Ed slammed his hands on the desk. "How can you say that after what's happened?!"

"Nina Tucker is currently under military jurisdiction," Colonel Mustang said calmly.

A metal watch was promptly shoved in his face. "Yeah, well, I'm military, aren't I? Goddammit, Mustang, I went through that stupid examination to _stop _you stuffy bastards from telling me what I could or couldn't do! I don't care how the hell you do it, you're going to take me to see Nina _right now!_"

"Stand _down_, Fullmetal!"

Edward stood back, panting from his outburst, desperation making his eyes wild. By contrast, Mustang's eyes were cool as he crossed his arms.

"I cannot take you to see Nina Tucker," he said, stressing each word. "She's being transferred to Central for laboratory investigation."

Ed made a noise like that of a wounded animal. "You're going to let them _experiment_ on her? That's fucking sick! She's just a kid, Mustang!"

"Goddamn it, Fullmetal, it wasn't my decision," Mustang snapped, losing his patience. "It was an order from the higher ups, alright? They didn't waste any time; she's on her way to Second Laboratory already. So will you _calm down?_"

The golden-eyed boy gritted his teeth. "How can I get access to her…experiments?"

"You can't," Mustang said immediately. "They know you're the one who found her, they know you lived with her for weeks, you're barred because of bias. And," he eyed the heaving of Fullmetal's shoulders, "for good reason, I can see."

"'Bias'? Is that what they call being a decent human being in the military?!" Edward practically shouted, disbelief and fury warring in his voice. "She's fucking _four years _old—how can you just sit here like this and not do anything? You're no better than they are!"

That one stung a little. Mustang closed his eyes and folded his hands, resting his forehead against them. "Look, Fullmetal, this is for the best. I saw the initial analyses—Nina Tucker's DNA was so tightly bound to her dog's, you wouldn't have been able to separate them without killing them both. The Laboratory has more people and resources to dedicate to reversing the transmutation."

"You and I both know that's not what they're after," Ed snapped.

"Fullmetal, sometimes you have to just accept your losses!"

"_Accept?!_ How the hell can I _accept_ that the military is going to fucking treat a little girl like some kind of lab animal?!"

Mustang glared at him. "You'll do it," he said slowly, "because you're a State Alchemist, and that was an _order_. Don't forget that you have your own problems right now, Fullmetal."

Edward flinched; this was as close as Mustang had come to threatening him since the first day of his term as State Alchemist. The room was engulfed in silence.

Suddenly, the door opened. "Colonel," Lieutenant Hawkeye said, her calm tone sounding extremely out of place, "I've finished carrying out your orders."

"Report," Mustang ordered.

She entered and closed the door behind her. "Your appeal to State Alchemist regulations code twenty-seven, section nine was successful. Due to the combination of Shou Tucker's work under your jurisdiction and a crime committed in an East City district, Nina Tucker's case has been recognized as the jurisdiction of East Headquarters, and will be treated as such."

Ignoring Edward's stare, Mustang let out a breath he hadn't known he'd been holding. "Where is she?"

"Currently transferring to a train back to East City, sir."

"When will she arrive?"

"Tonight at 2200 hours, sir."

"Have you spoken with Lieutenant General Grumman?"

"I have, sir," she paused. "He says that whatever you're up to, he doesn't want to know unless it's directly detrimental to his reputation."

Mustang chuckled. "Sounds just like the old man." He looked back at the blond midget, who was gaping at him. "Satisfied now, Fullmetal?"

"I…you…"

"I won't be able to keep him out of Central's hands for long," he continued, ignoring Ed's sputtering. "They'll want her sooner or later; I bet the Second Lab scientists are screaming their heads off already. I also have my hands tied with Scar at the moment, so it's up to you."

He met Ed's eyes, trying to convey the urgency of their situation.

"Save Nina Tucker," he barked. "That's an order, Fullmetal."

The boy stared at him for a moment. Mustang could see the exact moment when understanding dawned: Fullmetal's shoulders straightened, his golden eyes sharpened and gleamed, and a grin spread across his face.

He didn't snap a salute—he wouldn't have been Fullmetal if he had—but he did nod once, quickly. "Got it!" He turned to hurry out the door, undoubtedly eager to tell Alphonse the news, before pausing. "Colonel?"

"What?"

"…thanks."

Mustang blinked for just a fraction of a second, and then snorted. "Don't thank me yet," he warned. Things could still go wrong in so many ways; he had played his own move, but though he could fight to keep Central at bay, the most important part—actually restoring Nina Tucker and Alexander the dog, reversing the atrocity that Shou Tucker had committed—would be Fullmetal's job.

"I know, but, just," Ed hesitated, and then plunged on. "You're not as bad as I said you were."

Then he ran out before Mustang could respond. Dumbfounded, he could only stare at the door and then glare at Hawkeye when he spotted her faint smile.

"It's not funny."

"Not at all, sir."

Realizing that his dignity was a lost cause, he glanced at the clock; it was three. He stood up. "Lieutenant?"

"Sir?"

"Retrieve our guest and escort her to interrogation room number three. I have a few questions for her."

* * *

"Hey, Nina…"

"…"

"It's us, Edward and Alphonse. Do you recognize me?"

"…Ed…ward…A…Al…pho…nse…"

"…yeah."

"…Ed…ward…Al…phones…b…big…brother…?"

"…yeah, that's me. Big Brother. And this is Al. You called him…Bigger Brother."

"…big…brother…hurts…"

A swallow. "Yeah. I—I know. That's why…don't worry, okay? We'll find a way to fix this. Don't be scared. Big Brother will fix everything."

"…"

"Nina?"

"Nina, are you okay?"

"…ddy…"

"Nina?"

"…miss…da…ddy…"

"…"

"Oh, Nina…"

"…just hang on, Nina. Please. Whatever you do—don't give up."

_Don't give up on us. Please. Because we're not giving up on you!_

* * *

**.**

**.**

**.**

**Present Day**

**.**

**.**

**.**

Maybe it had something to do with Edward's head wound, but everything seemed to be in a haze.

The past couple of hours had been surreal. He and Al had discovered the truth about the Philosopher's Stone—thanks to Ming, who he would be having a _serious_ talk with the next time he saw her—and they'd then deduced that Fifth Laboratory was the site of military experimentation, and marched off to investigated the place, where they'd promptly been separated and forced to battle it out with the most unconventional security guards he'd ever come across. He still hadn't processed the idea that there were people out there who would actually tear a person's soul from his body and bind it to a suit of armor out of anything other than desperation, though he supposed that once you were depraved enough to sacrifice lives to create a Philosopher's Stone, moral boundaries ceased to exist.

He had won his fight and was questioning one of his opponents—he'd nearly lost earlier because he hadn't realized there were two—when the guy he'd almost grown fond of (if you ignored the fact that they were serial killers, they kind of grew on you after a while) was speared through his blood seal.

Ed stiffened in shock.

"That was too close. You mustn't blab too much, 48."

"Wow…why's the Fullmetal Shrimp here?"

His head snapped up.

There were two of them. Both were dressed in black, with eerie red eyes and sinister smirks—and both of them sent his instincts screaming _danger!_ Alchemist's eyes flickered over their bodies and noticed their strange tattoos: the Ouroboros, an insignia he recognized.

"Well, now," the one whose gender he wasn't sure of was saying. "What should we do with you?"

Even its _voice_ was androgynous. Not to mention its clothes…was that a skirt or a pair of shorts?

"What a troublesome boy," the other one, definitely a woman, murmured. "So, tell me…how _exactly_ did you find out about this place?"

For a moment, everyone in the room was still. And then Slicer—the older brother—groaned. The woman looked at him in surprise, as if she'd forgotten he was _speared_ on her _fingernails_ (how the hell did she do that? Was she an alchemist who transmuted automail fingernails?). After a moment of contemplation, she shrugged.

"I didn't want anyone to see this, but I can't do anything about it now." She retracted her nails, leaving the helmet suspended in the air—and then sliced it in half, right down the blood seal. The other Slicer screamed.

"Brother! Brother! _Brother!_"

Edward felt sick. For a moment, it had sounded like Al was calling his name...

"Damn you! We can still fight!"

The other…thing picked up Slicer's fallen sword.

"Give me a body…_give me a new body!_"

It sauntered over to the bottom half of the armor, right past Ed, as if the blond alchemist didn't exist.

"_GIVE ME_—"

_SCRAPE._

The awful sound of metal slicing through metal echoed through the hall.

The black-haired thing's placid expression was replaced by one of ugly disgust.

"Oh, shut the hell up, you nitwit!" He stabbed the blood seal again and again. "You were going to kill a precious sacrifice, huh? You have any idea what you're doing?"

Edward watched with horror as Slicer reached toward him with a trembling hand. _He's asking me to save him…_ He gritted his teeth, trying to will away his exhaustion. _Come on, body, move!_

"Plus, you were about to tell us everything about us! How do you plan on taking responsibility if the project gets held up?! Say something! Ah?"

The hand collapsed.

"Envy," the woman rebuked, "he's already dead."

"…ah?" It bent over as if to check, and then straightened. "Oh…what a wimp. I hate weaklings." Spinning around with the sword cocked on its shoulder, it spotted Ed, who stiffened as its violet gaze fell on him. "Oh, right, right!"

It stepped over with a friendly smile.

"How do you do, Fullmetal Shrimp?"

He twitched. Come to think of it, it had said the same thing earlier…

"I'm impressed that you made it this far! Good job." It knelt in front of him. "But since you did see something you shouldn't have…I guess I should kill you, too?"

Edward growled. "You…" Leaning against the wall, he pushed himself up. The…thing, Envy, watched him with interest—and, unfortunately, ducked just in time as he swung a kick at its head.

"Whoa! Hey, the shrimp's getting violent! Aww, I don't like fighting—it hurts."

Ed fell into a stance, his eye twitching. "Stop…saying…_SHRIMP!_" He clapped his hands together. "You're the one who fucking started this, so I'll take you on, bastard!"

_CRACK._

"…eh?"

He glanced down.

His automail arm hung from the shoulder, useless.

"WHAAAAAA?! WHY AT A TIME LIKE THIS?!" he panicked. Meanwhile, the two weirdos smirked.

"Looks like an automail failure," the woman remarked.

Envy dashed forward; Ed hacked and felt the air rush out of his lungs as the thing kneed him in the stomach. "You know, I was joking about killing you," Envy murmured, grabbing Ed by his braid. "You're lucky your arm broke down, since you got out of this without getting hurt too badly."

Then it dropped him and his head slammed onto the ground. Blackness ate away at the edges of his vision; the duo's voices faded in and out…

"You sure are lucky, boy…don't forget that we _let you live._"

"Well, we don't need this place for Stone creation anymore, so shall we blow up the evidence?"

"Still, is it really a good idea to let this kid live?"

"We still need him—we need to figure out how he found out about this place. Someone obviously let something slip. Look into it."

"Aw, why is it always me?"

"You can probably kill them once you're done with them. And as for him, it doesn't look like he knows anything except how to create a stone, which doesn't matter in the long run. The project's already in its final stages, after all…"

* * *

"And just where do you think you're going?"

Light flooded the back room.

Ming froze in the doorway.

Izumi's foot tapped.

"…out?" Ming offered weakly. Izumi took off a slipper and threw it; it bounced off her head. "Ow!"

"What part of 'grounded' do you not understand, young lady?!"

"Uh, the part where it means I have to stay in the house all the time?" Ming winced at Izumi's expression, but didn't move to take off her shoes. "I-I'm sorry, I'm sorry, don't kill me. I just—I have something I need to do downtown. Please? It's really important."

Izumi folded her arms. "You should've thought of that _before_ you decided to disappear for four years, huh?"

Ming slumped.

"Anyway, what's so important that could possibly be taking place at," Izumi glanced at the clock, "eleven at night? And have you heading out with a broken arm?" Her eyes narrowed. "You're not going on a date, are you?"

This was so far out of left field that Ming blinked. "Uh, no."

"Good," the older woman said firmly. "Any guy you decide to start seeing will have to go through honey and I."

Ming felt a trickle of sweat drip down her forehead. "Yeah, don't worry about it." It was obviously more of a threat than anything else; she couldn't think of a single boy who would be willing to brave Sig's dark-and-silent muscle, let alone Izumi's casual violence. But it was unnecessary. She'd never considered a relationship of any kind, anyway—she hadn't even _thought_ about anything remotely related to the subject since, well, her previous life. It was too weird a thought to contemplate, now, when her mind was more than a decade older than her body. Besides, she had better things to worry about.

Like homunculi. More specifically, homunculi who'd decided to take up residence in her Amestrian hometown. Even more specifically, homunculi who would soon be dead, if she didn't find a way to get out of being grounded.

"So?" Izumi prompted. "Are you going back to bed or do I have to knock you out?"

"Getting knocked out can't be good for my health," Ming countered very weakly.

Izumi raised an eyebrow. Neither of them moved.

"When are you going to stop this?" Izumi said at last.

Ming shifted her broken arm. "Stop what?"

"Don't bullshit me," the woman snapped. "This—dancing around. Pretending you're fine when you're not. Oh, don't act surprised, it's been your bad habit since you were little, I can read you like a book."

Her voice softened. "I know there's something you're not telling me," she held up a hand as Ming opened her mouth to protest, "no, I know there's a _lot_ you're not telling me. Hell, there are things I haven't told you, either. And that's okay. That's the nature of humans—to have secrets even from the people you're closest to."

That hit Ming like a brick. _"To have secrets even from the people you're closest to"_…_she considers me one of the people she's closest to?_

"But you know what's not okay?" Izumi leaned against the wall with a firm frown. "Keeping things to yourself when they hurt you. It's okay to keep some things for yourself; it's not okay to keep other people from helping you. You're not alone." A strange look crossed her face; it looked almost hurt. "I don't understand why you still seem to think that, even after all these years."

The back room was silent for a very long time.

"I'm sorry, I have to do this, this is _really _important," Ming said quietly. "But—for what it's worth, I'll be back soon."

She ran. Izumi didn't chase after her. The master alchemist remained against the wall, an unreadable expression on her face, head tilted up to watch the moon through the open door.

The streets of Dublith were long and winding at night. Light still blinked from windows here and there, dappling the ground with gray shadows; their number grew as she approached the lawless district that was Greed's domain. She knew she was in the area when drunken whistles and catcalls began to dog her footsteps; a group of men almost crashed into her as they bumbled along the street.

"Hey, girl, how much fer yer business?" One man reached for her from a side alley greedily; she ducked to avoid his grab. "Aww, don' be like that, sweetheart. We're all here t'ave fun, ain't we?"

She'd memorized the way during the day, but she hadn't taken into account how difficult the red light district would be to navigate when it was crowded with pleasure-seekers and drunkards. "Get out of my way, please."

"So cooold." He leaned over her. He was easily three heads taller than her—smaller than Sig by a long mile, though—and she could see the outline of a beer belly against the harsh light. "C'mon, girl, one night an' I'll make it worth yer while."

He leaned in; she wrinkled her nose at the beer in his breath.

"Sorry, I didn't want to do this," she told him, before she ducked behind him and knocked him out with a well-placed blow to the neck. Luckily, no one noticed as she dragged his unconscious body back into the alley.

Even more luckily, that was the only encounter of its kind that she had, though she was fairly certain that several pickpockets had eyed her before realizing that she was literally carrying nothing on her. After deftly dodging scarlet women selling their wares and annoyed bartenders dropping lightweights in the middle of the street, she made her way to a brightly lit bar with an unfortunately apt name: _Devil's Nest._

The bouncer at the door squinted at her. "You over eighteen?"

"No," she admitted, and then scooted away.

Entering through the front door wouldn't do; she doubted Greed was in the main parlor, anyway. He probably had a private room in the back. The best way to bust in…hmm.

She eyed the bouncer and ducked into the alley behind the building when he looked away to stare down another bar goer. There was a loud _squelch_ and she grimaced—she'd stepped into a pool of vomit. _Gross._ Resisting the urge to gag, she squeezed through the side alley (a difficult feat of maneuvering when she had a broken arm) and out into the back. The stink of the dumpsters hit her full in the face; she forced herself to press on.

At last, she stopped to scan the back wall and her grimace smoothed over. _Ah, there it is._

Another sign, the same one: _Devil's Nest._ Only this one was perched inconspicuously above a stairwell that led down, into a lower back entrance. Oddly enough, there was no one there; perhaps security was tighter on the inside? Not about to question her luck, she stepped down the first stair.

"What the hell d'you think you're doing, kid?"

Ah. Of _course_ it wouldn't be that easy.

"Sorry, that door's V.I.P. only," the man behind her continued with a yawn. She turned around slowly; her eyes widened. "Why don'tcha go try your luck at the front, huh?"

"Dolcetto," she breathed.

The dark-haired man, who'd been in the middle of a stretch, suddenly froze and narrowed his eyes.

In a millisecond, there was a blade to her neck. "Who the hell are you?" he growled, sounding very much like the dog chimera he was. "How do you know my name?"

She would have swallowed if it wouldn't have put her in more contact with the keen edge of steel. "I'm an ally," she promised. "Listen, I need you to take me to Greed—" the blade pressed harder, but she didn't flinch "—I have information for him, it's important, he has to listen to me."

"How do I know you're not lying?"

"I'm hardly in a position to lie right now," she pointed out, thinking fast. "Look, this is about his family, alright?"

"Greed doesn't _have_ a family."

"Yes, he does, he doesn't want to admit it but he does," she said very quickly. "They're the other people like him—only maybe about, uh, a hundred times as evil and horrible and annoying." When Dolcetto didn't move, she pulled out her last card. "I'm a little girl with a broken arm and you can smell me, I'm human, I'm normal, right? Just take me to him. It's not like I'll be able to do anything in a room full of chimera and a homuncul—"

He pulled away the sword and slapped a hand over her mouth. "Are you _stupid?_" he hissed. "You don't just go around blurting that kind of stuff out loud! Alright, fine, I'll take you to him, but you better be telling the truth or it's your head, you hear?"

She nodded frantically. He grabbed her good arm, shoving it behind her back, and marched her down the stairs.

He opened the door. It was dark inside; she guessed that animal-based chimera didn't exactly need their vision to find their way, though how they used their noses in a place that stunk of beer and cigarette smoke was beyond her. "C'mon, this way," he growled behind her, pushing her forward, and she followed his lead.

They walked down several hallways before he finally gripped her to make her stop walking and opened a door to the side. "Hey, boss! I've got something for you!"

"Ah? It better be good, Dolcetto."

"What the hell, Dolcetto, what are you doing to a kid?"

"Shut up, Martel, she asked for it!"

"Kinky…"

"I told you to shut up!"

Ming blinked at the dim light of the room and began to make out shapes.

Her eyes hit the walls first: multiple rifles leaned against the stucco, and several coats hung on the hooks. A stocky woman with dark skin and light hair stood next to them, her arms folded. On her other side stood a huge man with thick gray hair and a muscle-bound body that could have rivaled Sig's. She mentally labeled them: _Martel, snake; Loa, bull._ Her eyes swept across the room; another man with glasses knelt in the far corner. She didn't recognize him, but logged him as a probable chimera.

And in the very center of the room, facing the entrance, a man lounged on an expensive-looking couch, his feet propped on a low table with an ashtray and multiple glasses of something probably alcoholic. He had a pretty woman on each arm, both of them wearing low-cut dresses and heavy makeup.

The man himself was dressed all in black and looked like the epitome of a sleazy gang boss, except for one thing: the Ouroboros tattoo that flashed as he reached for another glass of wine.

_Greed, homunculus._

He eyed her from behind his shades, a sharklike grin playing on his face. "Oh? And who's this?"

"She says she's got info for you," Dolcetto said, pushing her forward with the back of his sword. She stumbled but caught herself before she hit the table.

"I don't remember using kids as informants," Greed drawled, turning to murmur something into a prostitute's ear; she giggled. "Make it quick."

She stared. She hadn't been expecting this—the way he acted like she didn't interest him, like she wasn't important at all, like she was beneath his notice. It annoyed her, just a little bit.

"Um," she said. "I don't think you're going to want your friends to hear this…"

She motioned at the prostitutes, who looked at her as if noticing her for the first time—and promptly turned their noses up at her, curling back against Greed. She was reminded, absurdly, of offended cats.

Greed laughed. "Anything you need to say, kid, you can say in front of my girls."

She retorted before she could stop herself.

"Wow, you're a complete pedophile."

Everyone in the room froze. Including her, after she registered exactly what had just come out of her mouth.

"What the hell did you say, you little brat?!" Dolcetto roared from behind her. Greed held up a hand, and he fell silent.

The homunculus let go of the prostitutes, set his feet on the ground, and leaned forward to actually look at her.

"Y'know," he said slowly, "I _really _don't remember using kids as informants. Who the hell are you?"

The chimeras tensed. She could hear Dolcetto drawing his sword again. Trying not to let the sound intimidate her, she straightened.

"I _really _think your gal pals need to leave the room," she said.

He stared at her. And then he laughed.

It was the stereotypical Greed laugh—but hearing it still sent shivers down her spine.

"GAHAHAHAHAHA!" He wiped a tear from the corner of his eye, still grinning his sharp-toothed grin. "You're pretty interesting, brat! Alright, girls, time to go."

"But Mr. Greed—"

"Aw, Mr. Greed—"

They protested at the same time. Greed shook his head and pushed them off the couch with both hands. "Sorry, girls, but business is business. Next time, huh?"

They pouted at him and then, finding him unmoved, flounced out the door. One of them made sure to stumble into Ming as she did so.

"Martel, go stand guard at the door," Greed ordered after they left. The tough-looking woman followed the prostitutes out, glaring at Ming with suspicion. _Wow, I feel popular_, she thought sarcastically. "Alright, kid, who are you and what do you have to say?"

"My name's Ming, Ming Curtis," she said. Offering her full, official name to someone for the first time felt strange. "I'm here to warn you. In the next few weeks or so, a State Alchemist will be in town."

"Oh, yeah?" Greed kicked his feet up again. "And what's that got to do with me?"

"It's got to do with you," she retorted, "because Fuhrer King Bradley will be tailing him."

Against the wall, Loa tensed. Yeah, if she heard that the man who used her to commit genocide and then carried out illegal experiments on her would be in town, she wouldn't be relaxed, either.

"Oh, really," Greed drawled. "And how do you know this, again?"

"I know a lot of things," she said coolly. She didn't know what it was, but there was something about this guy that just _annoyed _her. She hadn't been this irritated by another person since her three-year-old brother spilled calligraphy ink all over her alkahestry books. "I know you're a homunculus, for example. I know your core is a Philosopher's Stone. I know you've lived for two hundred years, give or take. I know your creator was a man you call 'Father,' but you don't follow him anymore; you want to pursue your own goals. I know there are six more like you—all named after the seven deadly sins. And I know one of them, Wrath, is Fuhrer King Bradley."

She paused.

"Which is why, if you know what's good for you, you'll keep your head down until he's out of town, unless you want to get boiled back into oblivion by your loving dad."

Silence followed her tirade.

Greed was no longer smiling. He propped his chin on his hand. "You," he said slowly, "are _very _interesting. You work for good ol' pops, or something?"

"If I did, would I be here to warn you that he's about to find you?" she retorted.

"Good question. Which is what I was gonna ask next—why are you telling me all this?" he countered.

She shrugged. "To be frank, I don't like your family a whole lot," she told him. "I'm planning to take them down and though it'd be nice if you helped, it would be nice enough just to have you _not _get your personality destroyed and be stuck working for Father again, because both of you are bitches to deal with all on your own."

"…did you just call Father a bitch?"

"Uh," crap, "maybe?"

He laughed. "Gahahaha! I like you, kid!"

She eyed him weirdly and started to scoot away. "I guess…that's good? Uh, right, so, I've given you my information. Just don't do anything stupid until Bradley heads back to Central, and you can do whatever the hell it is you do here later. Now I have to get home before Izu—my…uh…"

_My…?_

"…guardian kills me," she finished.

Greed abruptly stopped laughing. "Now hold on a second, kid."

_Uh-oh. That doesn't sound good._

His shark's grin was back. "That stuff you know is _real _confidential—and I'm wondering what else you know. It could be pretty damn useful."

Dolcetto's sword was suddenly at her neck again. Greed stood up; he was actually pretty tall, though not as tall as Loa.

"You know my name, but do you know what it means?" he spread his arms. "I'm Greed, the greedy. I want money! I want women!" His voice rose dramatically. "I want land! I want fame! I want _everything in this world!_ And you," he jabbed a finger at her, "seem to know a _lot. _Chances are you know a bit about how to get what I want too, don'tcha?"

"Look, that's great and all, but you really can't keep me here," she said calmly.

"Kid, I'm Greed, I do whatever the hell I want," he laughed. "And what I want right now is everything you know. Right here." He poked her in the forehead. "So, tell me everything!"

"No, you don't understand," she protested. "You actuallycan't keep me here. If you keep me here, my guardian's gonna come looking for me, and you _really _don't want that to happen."

Dolcetto snorted. "Brat, if I had ten _senz_ for every time I heard that line…"

"Trust me, you don't wanna mess with her," she said hurriedly. "She's a master alchemist, she survived a month on Mt. Briggs by hunting bears and stealing from military outposts, and she's married to a butcher—can't you smell the animal blood on me?"

There was a pause as the dog chimera sniffed. "Yeah, it stinks pretty strong," he admitted.

"See? So let me go before scary lady hunts you guys down and blows this place up."

She had never been more relieved for Izumi's reputation of terror than the moment Greed waved a hand and Dolcetto's sword lowered from her throat. "Have to admit, though, this 'guardian' of yours sounds like an interesting lady," Greed smirked. "Think she'd wanna work for me?"

"She'd die first," Ming assured him. She glanced at Dolcetto, then at Greed, then at the door. "Er…I'm just going to go now. Nice talking to you, bye."

She hightailed it out of the room and bounded down the route she'd memorized as Dolcetto had led her inside, almost running into Martel, who reached out with a snakelike hand to grab her before Greed called out the former soldier's name.

Honestly, she was glad she'd gotten out of there. Greed may have been the most benign of the Homunculi-in the loosest sense of the word-but he was also the most unpredictable. And the weirdest, though Envy took the cake for that one in terms of physical appearance...

_"I do whatever the hell I want!"_

_It must be nice to have that kind of blind certainty in your life_, she thought as she raced up the stairs and into the open air.

* * *

"Can you believe it? My daughter's going to be three years old!"

"Lieutenant Colonel Hughes…" Mustang took a deep breath. Calm down, calm down, count backwards from 50. _50…49…48…47…_ he lost it. "I'm busy at work right now!"

"Really? Wow, fancy that. I'm busy at work, too! It's just that she's sooo cute every single day!"

"I get it already, so stop calling me to brag about your daughter all the time! And especially not on the military line!"

"It's not just my daughter! I'm proud of my wife, too!"

"…do you think there's a way to fry a person over the phone with alchemy, Hughes?"

"Ooh, the big bad Flame Alchemist's scaring meeee. Oh—speaking of alchemy, what's the lowdown on Scar?"

"He hasn't been found yet. As it was a very large explosion, many unidentifiable bodies have been found. He might be among those…but there haven't been any witness reports in the East area, so the general consensus is that he's dead."

Mustang felt something clench in him even as he said the words. Curtis wouldn't be happy when she found out—neither was he, really. Although serial killers didn't make the best allies, so perhaps they were better off…

"So we can cut loose the Elric brothers' guards?"

Hughes's voice brought him back to reality. "Yeah, they're in Central, so I'll leave that up to the discretion of the brass there."

"The brass at Central, huh…" Hughes paused. "You know, Scar knocked out some of the higher-ranking guys in charge of state alchemy, so there's a shortage in personnel."

Mustang smirked. Now _that _was news he could get behind. Not that the way Scar had killed multiple high level State Alchemists was a good thing or anything…"Oh, really?"

"There's a rumor that a certain Colonel Mustang is about to be assigned to Central."

"…Central, huh? Not bad."

Hughes's tone grew serious. "Careful, now. Getting too high up the ranks at this age means you'll make more enemies."

Mustang closed his eyes. "I'm prepared for that." He paused. "You…be careful too, Hughes."

Silence on the other end of the phone.

"Hahahahaha! What's with that? Don't worry, Roy, I'm not a freak like you. I live a nice, safe, boring life in the investigations department, you know. No one's coming after me."

"You never know what can happen," Mustang said lightly. "Your photo sharing could tip someone over the edge someday."

"Impossible! There's no such thing as too much Elicia. Children are adorable! And my daughter's especially adorable! Oh, but my wife is wonderful too. Which is why I was saying—hurry up and get married."

Mustang immediately slammed down the phone. "DON'T BE RIDICULOUS!"

"Colonel, please be quiet when you're on the phone," Hawkeye said calmly from her desk.

On the other end of the conversation, Hughes paused. "Ah. I forgot to tell Roy that Ed was just hospitalized. Oh, well, I better go pay the kid a visit…and show him some pictures of Elicia!"

"Lieutenant Colonel, please don't skive off work again," one of his subordinates called. He grinned and gave her a thumbs up.

"It's okay, don't worry! If you want to see them, there're plenty of pictures to go around!"

"That's not what I meant!"

"Here, look, this is her at the park two weeks ago!"

"Never mind, it's obvious that your mind isn't on your work! Just go!"

Sitting in a military cab, Hughes smirked. _Skiving off work, success!_

The ride to the hospital would take a while, and left him with some time to think. Though he was sorely tempted to go through his Portable Elicia Collection for the fifth time that day, he heaved a sigh and tucked the packet of photos back into his jacket. There were more important things to contemplate.

Like Edward's recent excursion into the Fifth Laboratory. He'd heard the general sweep of things from General Armstrong—no pun intended—but he had a feeling a long question-and-answer session would be needed soon. He was getting a bad feeling from all of this, and if there was one thing he had learned as an investigator in the military, it was to trust his gut.

And when kids like Edward and Alphonse were involved in something that made the gut of a man who had watched a genocide clench…it made him sad about the state of their military. The state of their country.

He could still remember the first time he met the infamous Elric brothers—"infamous" as in "Roy complains about them all the time"—the day after the Shou Tucker murder:

"_Fullmetal, this is Lieutenant Colonel Hughes. He's been assigned to the Scar investigation."_

"_Huh."_

"…"

"…"

"_Wow, you're really just a kid, huh! Wanna see some pictures of my daughter?! She's adorable and she's turning three next month!"_

"_WHO ARE YOU CALLING A MIDGET SO SMALL HE'D FIT IN A SHOE?!"_

The memory made him chuckle. Ed was really easy to rile up—just like Roy, as a matter of fact. _For people who disagree as often as Roy says they do, they sure have a lot in common…_

Speaking of Roy, the man had been acting strangely, lately, too. For example, that _you be careful, too_…his tone had been serious. Too serious. It was like he was warning Maes of something…

Suddenly, a thought occurred to him and he mentally groaned. _Oh, no, who did he piss off this time?_ He filed that away for later analysis.

And then, there was the conversation they'd had a few days ago…

"_Hughes, when can you get back to East City?"_

"_Uh? I've been pretty busy over here lately, we got a couple of murders up here that need my skill and expertise—"_

"_Hughes."_

"—_maybe a week or so, if I don't get a case that puts me back over there. I'll get sent over there again if you find Scar, though. Why, what's up?"_

"…_nothing."_

"_Roy, I know you better than that."_

"_I'll tell you some other time. Say, can you look into something for me?"_

"_Depends, will it get me arrested?"_

"_Ha, ha. A girl named Ming Curtis. She's from Dublith, daughter of Izumi and Sig Curtis, teenager. I want anything you can find on her."_

"_How do you spell that?"_

"_M-I-N-G."_

"_Ming Curtis, Dublith, got it. Any particular reason or do I not need to know?"_

"_I told you, I'll tell you some other time, Hughes."_

"_Riiiight…"_

Truth be told, he hadn't had time to get around to anything more than a preliminary background check. The girl was interesting—an adoptee, it seemed, and a runaway. It was also interesting that Ed had been put on her case back when she went missing. But she'd been found again, so Maes didn't really see the problem…though of course he still had to dig deeper.

Regardless, the tone of their conversations these days worried the soldier in him. Maes closed his eyes and leaned against the window.

_Roy…I sure hope you know what you're doing._

* * *

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